-.'k. 


A  NOVEL  OF  NEW  YORK  LIFE 


A  NOVEL  OF  NEW  YORK  LIFE 


UNIV.  OF  CALIF.  LIBRARY.  LOS  ANGELES 


PREDESTINED 

A  NOVEL    OF  NEW    YORK   LIFE 


BY 

Stephen  French  Whitman 


GROSSET    &    DUNLAP 

PUBLISHERS          :       :          NEW  YORK 

Published  by  Arrangement  with  Charles  Scribner's  Sons 


COPYRIGHT,  1910,  BY 
CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 

Published  February,  191* 

Reprinted  in  March,  April,  September, 

November,  1910 


CONTENTS 


PART  ONE 

MM 

EILEEN  i 


PART  TWO 
MARIE 113 

PART  THREE 
EMMA 229 

PART  FOUR 
NINA 347 


2133739 


PART  ONE 
EILEEN 


CHAPTER  I 

IT  was  said  that  Felix  Piers  inherited  his  good 
looks  and  attractive  manners  from  his  mother,  who 
had  died  in  his  childhood.  The  son  had  at  home 
an  old,  faded  photograph  of  her,  by  aid  of  which  he 
made  himself  believe  that  he  remembered  her.  She 
was  portrayed  in  a  beaded  zouave-jacket  and  a  vo- 
luminous skirt,  wearing  a  chignon,  leaning  over  a 
flower  stand,  before  a  fringed  curtain  looped  up  with 
heavy  tassels.  Despite  her  clumsy-looking  dress  she 
appeared  charming,  and  in  her  face  was  beauty  of  so 
peculiar  a  quality  that  one  was  puzzled  by  it.  What 
sort  of  woman  had  she  been?  The  boy,  noting  her 
dark  eyes  and  crinkling  black  hair,  had  always  felt 
tender  satisfaction  at  the  thought  that  he  resembled 
her. 

On  the  other  hand,  none  could  perceive  what  at- 
tributes Felix  had  obtained  from  the  husband  who 
survived  her. 

This  gentleman,  Sheridan  Piers,  was  bony,  sallow, 
"  plain-looking,"  his  eyes  pale  blue,  his  mouth  hidden 
by  a  gray  mustache,  his  face — which  had  been  short- 
ened by  false  teeth — wearing  invariably  a  saturnine 
expression.  He  attracted  none  of  his  acquaintances 
to  intimacy.  Even  when  young,  for  the  most  part 
he  had  shunned  companionable  customs. 


4  PREDESTINED 

Shy  and  retiring  as  a  boy,  by  disposition  always 
solemn  and  austere,  he  had  experienced  in  his  life 
but  one  great  happiness — an  idealistic  passion  for  the 
brilliant,  ardent  woman  he  had  married.  At  her 
death,  which  occurred  when  she  still  possessed  all 
her  powers  of  fascination,  he  thought  himself  de- 
spoiled of  everything  that  made  his  life  worth  liv- 
ing. When  told  that  his  intense  grief  would  wear 
away  in  time,  he  repulsed  his  comforters  with  the 
fury  of  a  priest  before  a  shrine  to  which  some  one 
has  offered  sacrilege.  He  was  determined  never  to 
mourn  her  less  intensely. 

He  was  rich;  he  had  no  business;  he  lived  a  life 
of  leisure.  His  mind  was  not  adapted  to  profitable 
intellectual  pursuits.  His  time  was  taken  up  with 
petty  occupations.  He  was  one  of  those  persons  for 
whom  living  has  been  made  easy  through  inheritance, 
who  never  feel  any  positive  incentive  to  achievement, 
who  are  content  to  spend  a  lifetime  aimlessly,  from 
time  to  time  wondering  at  their  ennui  and  discontent. 
Growing  old,  he  fell  into  the  melancholy  ways  of 
solitaries. 

He  travelled ;  he  made  elaborate  collections  of  curi- 
osities that  might,  perhaps,  have  been  of  use  in  mu- 
seums ;  he  accumulated  rare  books  wherein  the  pages 
all  remained  uncut;  he  lined  his  walls  with  gloomy 
paintings  that  would  have  been  appropriate  in  the 
chapels  of  cathedrals.  But  when  he  was  on  his 
travels  the  beauties  and  the  gayeties  about  him  roused 
in  him  no  response.  With  a  sombre  countenance  he 
looked  at  sunsets  on  Italian  lakes,  Swiss  mountain 


EILEEN  5 

peaks  at  dawn,  the  Paris  boulevards  in  the  golden 
dusk,  Norwegian  fjords  by  moonlight.  Before  each 
exquisite  scene  he  forced  himself  to  think:  "If  she 
were  here!"  In  New  York,  amid  his  books  and 
pictures,  during  the  long  evenings  his  thoughts  were 
all  introspective  and  regretful.  Reviewing  his  un- 
profitable, lonely  life,  he  told  himself  that  its  poor 
quality  was  traceable  entirely  to  fate,  which  had 
deprived  him  of  his  wife.  "If  she  had  lived!"  He 
asked  himself  unanswerable  riddles:  Why  must  we 
have  sorrow  ?  Why  do  we  survive  for  years  to  mourn 
a  loved  one?  Why  do  we  attain  happiness  just  for 
a  moment — just  long  enough  to  realize  its  worth? 
Sometimes  he  exclaimed  proudly:  "Have  I  for- 
gotten her?  Have  I  ceased  to  mourn  her?  Am 
I  like  those  people  who  get  over  grief?"  His  wife 
had  furnished  his  life's  one  romance;  and  faithfully 
he  kept  fresh  his  sorrow  at  the  loss  of  it,  as  if  by  so 
doing  he  were  paying  back  in  part  a  great  debt  that 
he  owed  her. 

Monotony  and  solitary  living  made  him,  at  last, 
morose,  hypochondriacal,  "peculiar."  He  found  the 
world  a  poor  place;  he  began  to  look  forward  curi- 
ously toward  a  future  life,  and  wondered:  "Shall  I 
meet  her  there?  How  shall  I  find  her?"  He  was 
drawn  to  investigate  doctrines  of  immortality,  was 
excited  at  the  thought  of  "spiritistic  phenomena," 
and  finally  fell  into  the  hands  of  trance-mediums 
and  those  adroit  magicians  who,  in  a  darkened  room, 
seem  to  materialize  the  dead.  His  name,  his  secret 
thoughts  and  habits,  the  intimate  details  of  his  family 


6  PREDESTINED 

history  were  drawn  from  him  by  clever  charlatans, 
and  passed  about  through  that  profession  which 
preys  on  the  grief  of  the  bereaved.  In  "private 
seances"  he  seemed  to  see,  emerging  from  the  shad- 
ows of  a  cabinet,  the  vague  simulacrum  of  his  wife; 
sometimes  he  heard  her  speak ;  sometimes  he  touched 
her,  kissed  her,  and  then — his  normal  senses  over- 
whelmed by  emotion — believed  that  he  recognized 
her  face.  She  told  him  she  was  "waiting  for  him." 
At  last  he  shut  himself  up  the  more;  his  world  was 
a  world  of  shadows — a  place  thronged  with  invisible 
presences;  and  when  he  went  abroad  he  looked  with 
impatience  on  the  activities  of  healthy  life,  with  which 
he  no  longer  had  anything  in  common.  He  had  be- 
come an  eccentric.  His  former  associates  told  one 
another  that  his  mind  was  diseased. 

But  all  admitted  that  he  had  acted  the  part  of  a 
good  father.  He  had  given  Felix  "every  advantage." 

In  childhood,  Felix  was  a  quiet  boy,  dreamy,  full 
of  imagination,  fond  of  looking  by  the  hour  at  pict- 
ures in  old  books,  attracted  by  gentle  scenes  and 
beautiful  ladies,  responsive  to  affection,  easily  moved 
in  respect  of  his  emotions.  As  soon  as  he  learned  to 
read,  into  juvenile  literature  he  plunged  headlong. 
New  worlds  were  revealed  to  him.  In  fancy  he 
floated  through  nebulae  which  took  the  uncertain, 
gorgeous  forms  of  other  lands  and  epochs.  His  soli- 
tary musings  were  then  all  of  ancient  Britons,  of 
Carthaginians,  of  Aztecs,  of  peoples  tattooed,  painted, 
crowned  with  feathers,  clothed  in  shaggy  skins,  en- 
cased in  armor,  following  faithfully  his  own  small 


EILEEN  7 

figure  through  the  fog  of  wild  enterprises.  Walking 
home  from  school,  swinging  his  strapful  of  books, 
perhaps  he  was  the  King  of  the  Incas,  covered  with 
gold  ornamentSj  crested  majestically  with  green 
plumes,  passing  judgment — in  a  hall  of  skulls — on 
some  arch-enemy.  "Away  with  him,  to  the  tor- 
mentors!" Felix  bumped  into  people  on  the  street. 

When  he  was  fourteen  years  old  he  was  sent  to  a 
big  boarding-school  in  the  country. 

That  was  a  rolling  region.  There  patches  of 
woodland,  dim  purple  in  the  distance,  were  spread 
on  the  declivities  of  hills;  there,  in  the  valleys,  were 
laid  out  fields  of  yellow,  of  rich  green,  of  white,  of 
terra-cotta  color  after  ploughing  time.  The  school 
buildings — all  of  red  brick  with  blue  slate  roofs  and 
gables — stood  round  a  great  grass  circle.  In  the 
evening,  when  all  the  trees  were  motionless  and 
seemed  enveloped  each  in  a  separate,  gauze-like  haze, 
the  sky  would  slowly  turn  from  dusky  blue  to  yellow. 
Down  by  the  still  lake,  which  lay  beyond  the  foot-ball 
field,  at  that  hour  the  swallows  would  come  out,  sail- 
ing and  skimming  here  and  there,  low  down,  while 
uttering  shrill  cries  which  rang  as  if  the  sky  were  a 
hard  dome  of  veritable  amber.  Sometimes  the  boys, 
returning  from  the  tennis-courts,  managed  to  strike 
down  and  kill  a  swallow  or  two  with  their  racquets. 

This  placid  lakeside  was  a  favorite  of  Felix's.  His 
dreams  at  that  time,  affected  by  his  text-books,  were 
based  on  models  purely  classical.  In  the  flash  of  a 
window-pane  on  a  remote  hill-top,  struck  by  the  last 
rays  of  the  sun,  he  saw  the  bright  shields  of  the 


8  PREDESTINED 

Lacedemonians.  At  the  rumbling  of  thunder  he 
thought  of  Attic  shepherds  falling  on  their  knees  in 
fear  of  the  sonorous  voice  of  Jove.  Gray  brushwood 
smoke  adrift  above  the  valleys  brought  up  before  him 
scenes  of  ancient  warfare — the  pillage  and  the  ruin 
of  old  cities.  He  was  in  the  Wooden  Horse  when  it 
was  trundled  into  Troy;  he  led  the  sack;  he  was 
prodigious  in  a  brass  helmet  crested  with  red  horse- 
hair. And  "Fair-cheeked  Chryseis!"  Now,  in  the 
background  of  every  such  sally  of  imagination  hov- 
ered some  fair-cheeked  maiden  observing  all  his  feats 
of  valor  fondly. 

Taunted  by  his  school-mates  for  his  dreaminess,  in 
self-defence  he  plunged  into  their  gay  activities.  The 
habit  of  excitement  grew  on  him.  He  became  of  all 
the  school  the  most  ingenious  in  devising  spectacular 
and  humorous  escapades.  He  furnished  gayety  for 
every  one,  and  so  became  popular. 

By  his  instructors  he  was  thought  precocious,  tal- 
ented, and  promising.  But  he  grew  restless  under 
continuous  restraint,  erratic  in  his  moods,  subject  to 
all  wandering  impulses  that  took  his  fancy,  apt  to 
forget  completely,  in  an  access  of  nervous  gayety,  his 
duties.  He  learned,  at  length,  barely  enough  to 
"scrape  through"  into  college. 

He  went  to  live  on  a  college  campus — a  tranquil 
place,  full  of  great  elms,  of  rambling  white  stone 
buildings,  of  winding  flag-stone  walks  where  under- 
graduates in  odd  head-gear  strolled,  pipe  smoke  above 
them,  their  arms  over  one  another's  shoulders.  Every 
hour  there  was  thrust  through  the  silence  the  sound 


EILEEN  9 

of  a  clear  bell  calling  to  lectures.  In  the  evening 
the  voices  of  young  men,  singing  with  a  harmony  of 
many  parts,  stole  from  afar  across  the  grassy  stretches 
with  a  clarity  as  if  across  still  water.  Later,  one 
heard  the  confused,  uneven  songs  of  revellers  re- 
turning home  to  bed. 

One  day  a  Freshman  friend  of  Felix's  proposed  to 
him  in  the  street: 

" Let's  have  a  drink." 

They  entered  a  cafe  in  the  town.  Felix  concealed 
his  curiosity,  ashamed  that  he  had  never  before  been 
in  such  a  place. 

Along  one  side  of  the  cafe  ran  a  bar,  behind  which 
three  pyramids  of  glasses  were  reflected  in  large  mir- 
rors. A  man  in  his  shirt-sleeves  stood  there  talking 
to  a  rough-looking  fellow  who  leaned  across  the  rail, 
a  glass  of  beer  in  his  dirty  hand.  On  the  other  side 
of  the  room  one  saw  a  row  of  wooden  tables,  their 
round  tops  marked  with  gummy  spots  and  rings. 
There  was  sawdust  on  the  floor.  Against  the  plaster 
walls  hung  a  pair  of  sun-bleached  lithographs  en- 
titled "The  Birth  of  Venus"  and  "Diana's  Bath." 
The  two  Freshmen  seated  themselves  at  a  table. 
A  negro  in  a  stained  apron,  wiping  sweat  from  his 
brow,  came  shuffling  to  take  their  orders. 

Felix  resented  the  vulgarity  of  his  surroundings. 
Why  was  it  that  the  first  step  in  certain  new  experi- 
ences brought  disillusionment,  dissatisfaction,  and 
disgust  ? 

"What  will  you  have?" 

The  boy  glanced  furtively  at  the  lounger  by  the  bar. 


10  PREDESTINED 

"Beer,"  he  said,  with  a  careless  air. 

He  raised  his  glass,  buried  his  lips  in  foam,  and 
took  a  long  drink.  He  had  an  instant  of  intense 
surprise.  Setting  down  his  glass  empty,  he  looked 
round  thoughtfully. 

"By  George!  You  must  be  thirsty!" 

Felix  stared  seriously  at  the  other,  without  replying. 

Some  students  passing  by  noticed  the  two  emerge 
from  the  saloon.  Departing  arm  in  arm  with  his 
companion,  Felix  gave  them  a  proud  glance. 

Neither  youth  confessed  to  the  other  that  he  had 
just  learned  something  new. 

Felix  soon  found  his  friends,  the  sons  of  rich  par- 
ents, jolly,  full  of  spirit,  eager  to  try  their  wings. 
They  lived  in  expensive  style,  drove  automobiles 
breakneck  along  the  country  roads,  went  walking 
with  a  swarm  of  dogs  about  them,  kept  polo  ponies, 
had  liquor  cases  in  their  "studies"  and  actresses' 
pictures  on  their  dressing-tables.  Their  evenings — 
when  other,  earnest-faced  young  men  were  making 
play  with  eye-shades  and  lexicons  in  private — they 
spent  round  smoky  tables,  where  the  crash  of  Rabe- 
laisian choruses  was  emphasized  by  the  clinking  of 
pipe-stems  on  steins.  Becoming  sophisticated,  fi- 
nally they  believed  that  they  had  little  more  to  learn 
of  "life."  They  grew  to  detest  their  work;  and, 
with  delightful  feelings  of  irresponsibility  and  free- 
dom, evaded,  day  after  day,  the  tedious  routine  of 
lecture-rooms. 

In  the  June  of  his  fourth  year,  shortly  before  ex- 
amination time,  suddenly  Felix  realized  that  all 


EILEEN  II 

through  his  college  course  he  had  learned  nothing 
well.  Sitting  up  every  night  till  morning  with  his 
books,  he  tried  to  do  in  two  weeks  the  work  of  four 
years.  In  the  still  hours,  while  he  bent  beneath  the 
lamp,  all  his  past  heedlessness — its  charms  grown 
stale — recurred  to  him,  amazed  him,  filled  him  with 
remorse.  Then  recollecting  himself,  scanning  his 
text-books  afresh,  he  was  aghast  at  his  inability  to 
grasp  the  meaning  of  whole  chapters.  He  was 
thrown  into  a  panic.  He  went  to  his  examination 
hopeless.  The  examiners  refused  him  a  degree. 

"Well,  I've  learned  my  lesson,"  Felix  said  to  him- 
self. He  made  resolutions.  He  came  back  the  fol- 
lowing fall,  did  all  his  last  year's  work  again,  and 
finally  was  graduated  among  the  young  men  whom, 
in  Sophomore  year,  he  had  "hazed." 

One  evening  they  sang  their  last  song  together, 
sitting  on  the  grass  beneath  tall  elms,  the  shadowy 
foliage  of  which  was  splashed  here  and  there  with 
the  soft  light  of  Chinese  lanterns.  A  silver  loving- 
cup  went  round;  each,  as  he  received  it,  stood  up 
and  drank  from  it,  while  the  rest  sang  to  him.  Tears 
ran  down  their  faces. 

It  was  all  finished.  Felix  went  back  to  his  rooms 
and  found  them  stripped :  the  walls  bare,  the  pictures 
in  piles,  the  chairs  full  of  ornaments  and  souvenirs, 
in  the  midst  of  the  litter  a  servant  packing  trunks. 
What  desolation!  Returning  to  the  campus,  he  wan- 
dered off  to  find  some  friends,  dragging  his  feet,  his 
eyes  wet.  He  had  never  felt  so  before.  It  seemed 
to  him  that  he  was  full  of  grief  and  experience. 


12  PREDESTINED 

Presently  he  found  roaming  about  another  sad 
young  man — a  poor  student  who  had  worked  his 
way  through  college,  who  had  never  found  time  to 
make  friends  or  to  hunt  pleasure,  who  had  spent  his 
four  years  in  a  small  room  with  a  bed,  a  wash-stand, 
a  table,  a  coal-scuttle,  a  lamp,  and  a  pile  of  second- 
hand books.  In  a  cafe,  where  there  was  a  dejected 
gathering  of  his  friends,  Felix  presented  himself  with 
his  arm  across  this  young  man's  shoulder.  He  felt 
that  to  be  a  fine  gesture;  he  was  touched  by  the 
thought:  " Sorrow,  shared  in  common,  levels  all 
barriers." 

Felix  was  sent  round  the  world.  He  saw  strange 
seas  and  lands.  On  shipboard  he  awoke,  sometimes, 
to  find  blowing  through  the  open  port-holes  air  as 
extraordinarily  flavored  as  if  enveloping  another 
world.  He  perceived  across  water  for  the  first  time, 
yet  with  the  inexplicable  thrill  of  an  old  traveller 
returning  after  many  years,  minarets,  pagodas,  a 
Chinese  junk,  spider-like  Malay  catamarans.  He 
became  enamoured  of  strange  perfumes,  antipodal 
music,  women  so  fantastically  charming  that  they 
seemed  unreal. 

In  those  surroundings  precious  thoughts  came  to 
him,  lingered  just  long  enough  to  enchant  him,  and 
then  were  crowded  out  of  his  brain  by  more.  He 
longed  to  save  them  all,  to  perpetuate  them,  to  move 
others  with  them.  Beside  old  ruins — amid  the  deso- 
late alleyways  of  Pompeii,  in  the  red  trenches  of 
buried  Carthage,  before  the  colossi  on  the  Nile  at  that 
fleeting  moment  when  the  setting  sun,  touching  the 


EILEEN  13 

desert  hills,  turns  green — he  was  tormented  because 
his  ecstasies  were  inexpressible.  Closing  his  eyes, 
he  felt  the  past  renewed  about  him.  Pompeii  was 
alive  again,  full  of  white  togas  and  bright  shawls: 
the  ivory  spokes  of  chariots  flashed  in  the  lanes;  the 
gladiators  showed  their  huge  bodies  and  brutal  heads 
along  the  promenades ;  delicate,  black-haired  women, 
with  ear-rings  dangling  to  their  shoulders,  went  un- 
dulating under  scarlet  parasols;  and  at  the  street 
corners  little,  thin  Greek  girls  blew  plaintive  tunes 
on  flutes.  He  saw  the  tall  pitch-covered  palaces  of 
Carthage  risen  afresh:  the  streets  were  full  of  camels, 
wild  soldiers,  and  women  in  black  robes  with  painted 
eyes ;  the  images  of  gods,  moving  in  procession,  glit- 
tered above  the  heads  of  the  barbaric  crowd.  The 
monuments  beside  the  Nile  were  new  and  unscarred 
again,  and  in  and  out  between  the  pillars  of  the  tem- 
ples stole  the  lean  Egyptian  priests,  with  flowers  in 
their  hands,  the  last  of  the  sunlight  flashing  on  their 
brown,  shaven  heads.  Ah,  to  have  such  thoughts — 
which  Felix  considered  very  fine — and  to  be  unable 
to  disseminate  them,  to  create  with  them  in  countless 
minds  amazement,  admiration,  and  respect!  At  last, 
on  shipboard,  he  began  struggling  with  pen  and 
paper.  But  nothing  looked  the  same  on  paper! 

He  was  away  a  year,  and  came  home  "greatly 
broadened."  He  had  received  his  education.  What 
should  now  be  done  with  him? 

Sheridan  Piers,  rousing  himself  to  interest,  pon- 
dered this  problem  with  Felix.  They  talked  of  a 
career  in  finance :  it  would  be  easy  for  the  young  man 


I4  PREDESTINED 

to  obtain,  through  friends,  an  excellent  position  in 
Wall  Street,  with  every  chance  of  quick  advancement. 
They  discussed  the  advantages  of  law  and  of  the 
diplomatic  service. 

"You  see,  you  should  do  something,  Felix,"  the 
old  man  said  vaguely,  winking  his  washed-out  eyes  in 
his  perplexity.  "Most  everybody  does.  I  haven't; 
but  then  they  say  that  I'm  ' peculiar.'  And  you 
know  you  don't  take  much  after  me." 

They  were,  in  fact,  so  far  apart  in  temperament, 
that  they  had  never  possessed  in  common  an  import- 
ant interest  or  understood  each  other.  Sheridan 
Piers's  uncongeniality  and  sadness  chilled  the  boy 
and  had  their  effect  inevitably  on  the  home.  The 
house  was  characteristic  of  the  man  who  lived  shut 
up  in  it:  a  place  furnished,  with  faded  richness, 
in  an  unaesthetic  fashion  obsolete  for  two  decades, 
filled  with  the  souvenirs  of  a  departing  generation, 
exhaling  the  odors  of  old  things,  dim,  chilly,  full  of 
echoes,  lonely.  Felix  had  seen  so  many  bright  and 
joyous  regions  that  he  was  unable  to  have  affection 
for  his  home  or  a  desire  to  inhabit  it. 

"Perhaps,"  he  said,  "I'd  do  well  in  the  diplo- 
matic service."  And  he  pictured  himself  in  some 
foreign  capital:  at  brilliant  garden  parties,  balls,  and 
state  dinners,  surrounded  by  beautiful  and  gracious 
women,  courtly  soldiers  in  fine  uniforms,  grave 
diplomatists  expert  in  repartee  and  cynicism — in  a 
world  out  of  story-books,  where  everything  was  ex- 
hilarating, gay,  sumptuous,  remote  from  gloom. 

They  decided  that  he  was  to  "take  his  time  and 


EILEEN  15 

think  it  over."  Felix,  while  doing  so,  enjoyed  him- 
self— laughed,  played,  spent  money,  fell  in  love,  got 
over  that,  glanced  every  day  at  some  lesson  of  the 
sort  not  taught  in  books.  Sheridan  Piers,  for  his 
part,  went  on  dreaming,  regretting,  thinking  of  his 
wife.  Beginning  to  grow  feeble,  he  imagined  that 
he  had  all  sorts  of  ailments.  He  complained  of  ver- 
tigo, tremors,  and  roaring  in  the  ears.  He  thought, 
now  and  then,  that  he  heard  a  voice  calling  him  by 
name.  He  commenced  to  read  the  Bible. 

One  day  Joseph,  an  old  servant  who  had  been 
with  the  family  for  thirty  years,  brought  to  his  master 
a  little,  rusty,  tin  box,  which  he  had  found  while 
rummaging  an  attic  room.  Sheridan  Piers  pried  the 
box  open.  It  contained  a  heap  of  tarnished  trinkets, 
faded  ribbons,  dilapidated  dance  favors,  newspaper 
clippings,  a  sheaf  of  yellow  letters.  It  was  a  collec- 
tion of  his  wife's  mementos. 

A  mist  rose  before  the  old  man's  eyes;  at  first  he 
could  not  bring  himself  to  touch  those  objects  which, 
long  ago,  she  had  used,  cherished,  and  packed  away 
with  her  own  hands.  After  a  while  he  drew  from 
the  box  a  coral  necklace  and  a  crumbling  flower. 
Upon  the  brown  leaf  splashed  a  tear.  Once  she  had 
^held  that  blossom  in  her  fingers;  that  necklace  had 
been  clasped  about  her  throat.  He  remembered  it, 
and  how  she  had  looked  while  wearing  it.  His 
memory  of  her  was  of  a  beautiful  young  woman, 
fresh,  radiant,  redolent  with  a  delicious  sweetness. 

Trembling  with  emotion,  he  began  to  read  the 
letters. 


1 6  PREDESTINED 

He  did  not  know  the  handwriting.  Each  letter 
was  signed  simply  with  a  "P."  All  were  dated 
"Paris,"  where  he  and  his  wife  had  lived  for  several 
winters,  where,  at  the  death  of  his  father  in  America, 
he  had  been  forced  to  leave  her  for  a  few  months. 
He  remembered  that  year  perfectly;  it  was  the  year 
of  Felix's  birth. 

But  whom  were  these  letters  from  ? 

He  read  some  sentences.  Written  in  French, 
they  were  exquisitely  worded.  They  spoke  of  love. 
He  realized  that  he  was  reading  the  love-letters  of 
some  other  man,  addressed  to  her. 

He  stared  before  him,  without  breathing,  his  face 
disfigured  by  apprehension.  For  a  minute  his  hands 
trembled  so  that  he  could  not  continue  reading. 

Presently,  rousing  himself  to  action,  he  arranged 
all  the  letters  in  order,  according  to  their  dates.  The 
correspondence  had  extended  over  a  period  of  two 
years! 

He  commenced  with  the  first  letter.  Cold  all  over, 
he  read  deliberately  page  after  page.  He  was  ter- 
rified by  the  elegance,  the  charm  of  each  succeeding 
period.  He  had  a  sensation  of  faintness  at  seeing 
here  expressed  for  her,  with  passionate  fluency,  such 
thoughts  as  even  he  had  never  had. 

The  letters  began  with  protestations,  entreaties, 
accusations  of  "cruelty."  But  soon  the  anxious 
note  in  them  gave  place  to  an  accent  of  assurance. 
Each  page  brought  him  nearer  to  the  discovery  he 
dreaded.  Should  he  go  on? 

Soon  he  was  reading  of  passed  notes,  kisses  behind 


EILEEN  17 

curtains  and  in  carriages,  subtle  machinations  and 
deceits,  finally  clandestine  meetings.  After  all  the 
years,  her  feminine  reluctance  to  destroy  those  senti- 
mental treasures,  her  woman's  yearning  to  keep  by 
her  all  her  dearest  trophies  had  betrayed  her. 

He  came  to  the  letters  that  had  been  written  while 
he  was  away.  A  terrible  suspicion  seized  him. 

Suffocating,  he  got  up  to  raise  a  window.  Sud- 
denly he  fell  flat  upon  the  floor,  as  if  struck  down 
with  a  club.  Old  Joseph  found  him  there,  lying 
amid  the  scattered  letters. 

To  Sheridan  Piers's  bedside  came  quickly  two  dig- 
nified physicians.  With  the  impassive  countenances 
of  those  who  see,  every  day,  tortured  bodies  struggling 
between  life  and  death,  attentively  they  watched  the 
patient.  Lying  on  his  back,  unconscious,  with  half- 
opened  eyes,  slowly  puffing  out  his  cheeks,  he  ex- 
pelled his  breath.  They  raised  his  eyelids,  listened 
to  the  beating  of  his  heart,  felt  his  arteries  with  their 
long,  flexible  fingers,  tapped  his  knee-caps,  lifted  one 
by  one  his  arms  and  legs  and  let  them  fall.  They  put 
their  heads  together  and  decided  that  he  had  suffered 
a  stroke  of  apoplexy. 

"Well,  Doctor,  what  would  you  say?" 

"A  hemorrhage  of  the  interior  capsule,  Doctor,  but 
not  a  fatal  one.  We  have  this  time  merely  a  paralysis 
of  the  left  arm,  extending  to  and  including  the  pec- 
toralis  major.  We  can,  I  think,  at  a  conservative 
estimate,  give  him  a  month  for  a  partial  recovery. 
We  shall  have  then  considerable  debility,  feebleness 
of  the  affected  parts,  and  perhaps — remembering  the 


1 8  PREDESTINED 

patient's  well-known  past  oddity  of  conduct — an  in- 
creased eccentricity.  As  for  the  second  shock,  when 
it  comes,  he  may  survive  it.  But  of  course  a  third 
would  finish  him." 

They  did  everything  necessary  and  departed. 

When  he  recovered  the  use  of  his  body,  every  one  in 
the  house  observed  that  he  was  greatly  changed.  He 
would  not  see  Felix;  he  spoke  to  none  save  Joseph; 
he  sat  alone  in  his  room,  huddled  before  the  fireplace, 
staring  at  the  flames.  Every  day  he  became  more 
debilitated.  The  foundations  of  his  existence  had 
been  struck  from  beneath  him ;  he  was  crumbling  to 
pieces. 

He  could  not  keep  his  hands  off  the  letters.  He 
reread  them,  crushed  them,  tore  them,  hurled  them 
from  him.  Then,  gathering  them  up,  he  smoothed 
them  out  and  pieced  them  carefully  together.  Poring 
over  them,  with  bated  breath,  he  thought  of  his  be- 
trayal by  the  woman  who  had  been  for  him  a  divinity, 
imagined  the  secrets  of  her  life,  pictured  to  himself 
all  that  she  had  lived  through  without  his  knowledge 
— with  another.  It  was  as  if  it  had  just  happened, 
for  he  had  just  discovered  it. 

He  perused  the  clippings  that  he  had  found  with 
the  letters.  They  revealed  the  history  of  the  man; 
all  his  public  activity  was  reported  in  them.  Of 
everything  he  had  done  in  those  days  she  had  treas- 
ured these  accounts.  How  she  must  have  loved  him 
— this  stranger! 

At  last,  in  a  frenzy  of  hatred,  he  hurled  the  tin  box 
and  its  contents  into  the  fire.  The  letters  and  the 


EILEEN  19 

clippings  burst  into  flames;  the  trinkets  glowed  and 
melted  among  the  coals;  the  tin  box  crackled  and 
twisted  on  a  bed  of  ashes.  When  all  was  consumed, 
how  he  desired  to  have  it  back  again! 

Sometimes  he  called  out  her  name,  over  and  over, 
in  reproach,  till  old  Joseph  came  running  to  him. 
Then  he  was  apt  to  believe  that  she  was  living,  that 
they  were  in  Paris,  that  she  was  planning  with  her 
lover  to  deceive  him.  "Where  are  they  to-night, 
Joseph  ?  You  must  hunt  for  them.  Let  me  tell  you : 
you'll  find  them  at  a  ball,  in  an  alcove,  behind  some 
palms;  or  in  the  back  of  a  box  at  the  opera;  or,  if 
you  hide  on  a  street  corner,  you'll  see  them  coming 
home  in  a  closed  carriage  with  the  horses  walking. 
You're  to  go  up  to  the  carriage  window  and  whisper: 
'Mr.  Piers  wants  to  speak  to  you.'  That'll  surprise 
them;  don't  you  believe  so?  You  know  they  think 
I'm  very  stupid." 

Finally  he  got  the  idea  that  Felix  was  involved  in 
their  deceit  and  that  he  must  outwit  the  three  of 
them.  How  could  he  do  it  ?  He  sat  plotting  by  the 
hour,  looking  cautiously  about  him.  He  hit  upon  a 
plan. 

He  sent  for  a  young  broker  who  had  been  involved 
in  some  "shady"  business  in  the  past  and  of  whom 
persons  of  integrity  knew  nothing  edifying.  Sheridan 
Piers  received  this  man  with  a  calm  and  plausible 
demeanor.  He  had  attained  the  cunning  of  the 
demented. 

"You  see,  Mr.  Noon,  I'm  afraid  I  haven't  long  to 
live,  and  before  I  die  I  want  to  make  considerable 


20  PREDESTINED 

changes  in  the  disposition  of  my  property.  If  you 
undertake  my  affair,  you'll  find  it  a  large  one.  But 
I  shall  have  my  work  done  very  quietly.  No  gossip- 
ing. There  are  some,  you  know,  who  think  a  man 
has  no  right  to  do  what  he  wants  with  his  own 
money." 

The  broker,  looking  down,  smiled  deprecatingly. 

Sheridan  Piers  sold  all  his  outlying  real  estate. 
He  disposed  of  all  his  stocks.  He  borrowed,  quietly, 
as  much  money  as  would  equal  the  value  of  his  house, 
his  stable,  and  their  contents.  Little  by  little,  with- 
drawing his  deposits  from  the  banks,  he  accumulated 
his  whole  fortune  in  his  house  without  any  one  know- 
ing that  he  had  it  there.  One  evening  he  had  a  hot 
fire  kindled  in  his  room.  He  locked  himself  in  and 
paid  no  attention  when  the  whole  household  besought 
him  to  come  out. 

At  midnight  Felix  sent  for  a  physician. 

They  broke  into  the  room.  They  found  the  old 
man  standing,  with  a  blank  face,  beside  the  fireplace, 
which  was  choked  with  ashes.  He  could  not  recog- 
nize anybody,  and  took  his  physician  for  the  man 
who,  twenty-five  years  before,  had  wronged  him. 
At  this  hallucination  he  had  another  "stroke." 

He  died  in  a  few  hours.  Before  the  end,  to  Felix, 
who  bent  over  him,  he  whispered  significantly: 

"  You're  to  look  to  them  hereafter,  d'you  under- 
stand?" 

He  had  destroyed  his  fortune,  leaving  nothing. 

Felix,  in  distraction,  rushed  off  to  the  family's 
lawyer. 


EILEEN  21 

When  that  gentleman  appreciated  the  disaster,  at 
once  he  took  thought  for  his  reputation.  Malicious 
persons  would  say  that  he  was  to  blame  for  not  hav- 
ing long  since  deprived  his  client  of  power  to  transact 
his  business.  Looking  at  Felix  thoughtfully,  he  asked 
the  miserable  young  man: 

"Who  knows  about  this  destruction  of  the  prop- 
erty besides  you?" 

"Joseph." 

"Ah,  we  can  depend  on  him!  Now,  of  course,  it 
must  go  no  farther — it's  too  shocking.  We  can't 
make  the  family  name  notorious  with  such  an  ex- 
traordinary tale.  I'm  your  father's  executor,  and 
in  his  last  will  everything  is  left  to  you.  You  and  I 
will  appear  to  go  over  the  estate  together.  We  shall 
find  that  it  was  'greatly  overestimated' — you  under- 
stand me?  That  will  do  for  the  present.  A  year 
from  now  there  will  be  no  public  interest.  That's 
the  way  to  fix  it!" 

The  lawyer,  though  not  troubled  ordinarily  by  con- 
science, felt  some  responsibility  in  this  affair.  He 
was  just  then  on  the  point  of  setting  out  for  a  vacation 
in  the  woods.  It  occurred  to  him  that  it  would  be  a 
generous  act  to  take  Felix  along  with  him.  Before 
he  went  he  saw  the  house  and  its  contents  sold,  to  pay 
the  debts  that  Sheridan  Piers  had  contracted.  When 
he  and  the  boy  set  out,  Felix  had  nothing  left  but 
fifteen  hundred  dollars,  his  balance  at  the  bank. 

In  a  fishing  camp  at  the  edge  of  a  great  forest, 
where  the  clear  air  was  sweet  with  the  odor  of  spruce- 
trees,  where  loons  laughed  in  mid-lake  and  deer 


22  PREDESTINED 

came  down  to  drink  and  the  cool  nights  were  made 
beautiful  by  northern  lights,  finally  the  boy  conquered 
his  dismay.  Plied  with  encouragement  and  good 
advice,  he  became  almost  philosophical.  At  twenty- 
five  the  greatest  sorrows  are  not  poignant  for  long, 
the  greatest  losses  soon  cease  to  seem  irreparable. 
Youth,  instead  of  repining,  looks  always  forward. 
Felix  turned  his  eyes  toward  the  future. 

He  had  decided  what  he  was  going  to  do.  It 
seemed  to  him  now  that  all  through  his  life  every 
inclination  and  predilection  of  his  had  been  urging 
him  toward  one  vocation.  With  feelings  of  calmness 
and  of  assurance,  as  if  he  had  solved  at  last  the  mean- 
ing of  all  his  spiritual  cravings  and  emotions,  he  con- 
templated his  career.  He  intended  to  become  "a 
famous  writer." 

Late  in  the  evening,  when,  on  the  luminous  waters 
of  the  lake,  islands  and  peninsulas  seemed  like  mys- 
terious, long  shadows  suspended  in  mid-air,  Felix, 
looking  with  awe  into  the  spangled  sky,  felt  in  him- 
self illimitable  possibilities.  The  solitude,  the  hush, 
the  swimming  vagueness  of  the  lake,  the  solemnity 
of  the  bright  heavens  ennobled  him.  It  was  as  if 
a  strange  soul,  finer  than  his  own,  possessed  him. 
For  the  moment,  so  ethereal  were  all  his  sensations 
that  no  heights  seemed  unattainable.  Exalted  by 
superb  aspirations,  he  dreamed  of  the  future,  which 
appeared  before  him  like  a  bright  mist,  glittering 
resplendently. 


CHAPTER  II 

IT  was  toward  the  end  of  June  when  Felix  got  back 
to  New  York. 

He  found  the  place  greatly  changed.  The  streets 
that  he  had  known  from  childhood  all  appeared 
strange  to  him ;  the  faces  of  the  people  seemed  selfish 
and  unfriendly;  his  own  city  wore  a  cold,  hostile 
aspect. 

He  felt  at  once  great  need  of  sympathy.  The 
bluff  encouragement,  the  slap  on  the  back  that  he 
might  expect  from  his  friend  the  lawyer,  and  from 
other  men,  would  be  of  no  use  to  him.  He  pictured 
to  himself  the  solace  of  a  gentle  woman's  compre- 
hension: the  soft  hand  resting  on  his  hair,  the  eyes 
so  quick  to  fill  with  tears,  the  tender  heart  so  ready 
to  share  sorrow.  He  might,  he  thought,  unload  much 
of  his  sadness  upon  some  fond  woman. 

At  his  club — to  which  he  went  at  once,  with  the 
intention  of  staying  there  till  he  contrived  some  defi- 
nite scheme  of  living — he  found  waiting  for  him  a 
letter.  It  was  from  a  widow  of  sixty,  a  Mrs.  Ferrol, 
who  had  gone  to  school  with- his  mother  and  who  had 
always  been  his  friend. 

Writing  from  her  summer  home  in  the  country,  she 
told  Felix  that  she  wanted  him  to  come  and  visit  her. 
"I  can  think  of  no  better  place  than  this  for  you  to 

23 


24  PREDESTINED 

spend  the  next  month  or  two;  you  need,  just  now, 
what  we  have  here.  The  country  is  beautiful;  the 
sun  shines  every  day;  and  you  will  find  here  two 
women  who  are  very  fond  of  you." 

She  alluded  to  her  daughter  Nina,  twenty-three 
years  old,  whom  Felix  had  known  all  his  life,  and  for 
whom  he  had,  whenever  he  thought  of  her,  the  affec- 
tion of  a  good  brother. 

He  was  touched  by  the  letter.  It  offered  him 
what  he  had  just  been  longing  for.  He  thought  of 
how  he  would  appear  before  them,  changed  by  mis- 
fortune, rather  a  pathetic  figure,  and  of  how  they 
would  indulge  him,  divert  him,  humor  with  a  thou- 
sand little  tender  wiles  his  gloominess.  Two  gentle 
women  to  console  him,  in  beautiful  surroundings! 

He  telegraphed  to  them  that  he  was  coming,  and 
the  same  afternoon  set  out. 

The  Ferrol  farm  was  in  Westchester  County. 
Felix  rode  for  an  hour  on  the  railway;  and  Nina, 
bareheaded  and  tanned,  met  him  at  the  station  with  a 
cart. 

She  was  a  brown-haired  girl  with  a  plump,  vigor- 
ous shape.  Her  skin  was  fine;  her  cheeks  were 
pink;  her  blue  eyes  were  wide  open,  showing  a  good 
deal  of  the  whites,  which  gave  them  an  alert,  frank 
expression.  Her  upper  lip  was  lifted  to  a  little  point. 
She  looked  competent  and  self-reliant. 

"Dear  old  boy!"   she  exclaimed  in  a  full  voice. 

"This  is  very  kind  of  you,  Nina." 

"Is  it?  Jump  in.  I  want  to  show  you  this 
horse." 


EILEEN  25 

She  drove  swiftly  through  the  village  and  out  into 
a  country  road.  The  hills  on  either  side  were  emer- 
ald green.  The  soft,  blue  sky  was  flecked  with  little, 
brilliant  clouds.  A  breeze,  perfumed  with  verdure 
and  wild  flowers,  blew  in  their  faces. 

Giving  him  a  quick  glance,  she  remarked: 

" You're  looking  fairly  well." 

He  sighed.   Apparently  she  did  not  hear.    She  said: 

"I'll  let  him  out  here." 

The  horse  leaped  forward.  Between  his  collar  and 
her  hands  the  taut  reins  quivered.  The  wind 
whistled  past.  Her  loose  hair,  coming  undone,  blew 
round  her  forehead  and  out  behind  her  neck.  Her 
face  was  calm ;  she  wore  a  look  of  satisfaction. 

In  the  fields  farmers  straightened  themselves  and 
stared.  A  boy  on  a  plough-seat  held  himself  motion- 
less, his  whip  half  raised.  All  along  the  road,  behind 
the  cart,  a  fog  of  saffron-colored  dust  hung  trembling 
in  the  air. 

Ahead,  on  the  top  of  a  hill,  appeared  the  house  sur- 
rounded by  tall  trees,  with  terraces  before  it  covered 
with  the  white,  purple,  pink,  and  yellow  bloom  of 
hardy  shrubs.  Above  tiers  of  flowering  spiraea,  lilacs, 
azaleas,  and  jasmine  bushes  rose  a  long,  solid- 
looking  building  of  three  stories,  flat-roofed,  of  red 
brick  trimmed  with  white  stone  in  the  Georgian 
style.  Beyond  it,  to  the  right,  showed  through  trees 
the  top  of  a  windmill  and  the  roofs  of  stables  and 
farm  buildings.  A  sound  of  many  dogs  barking 
suddenly  came  down  the  breeze. 

As  the  cart  climbed  the  hill,  in  the  mellow  sunshine 


26  PREDESTINED 

of  late  afternoon  the  terraces  displayed  hues  almost 
unnaturally  gorgeous,  the  trees  seemed  powdered 
thick  with  ruddy  gold-dust,  the  brick  walls  of  the 
house  were  rose-colored;  from  the  windows  flashed 
a  blinding,  flame-like  radiance.  Above,  the  fleecy 
clouds,  all  motionless,  were  turning  pink.  And  Felix 
saw,  standing  between  the  stone  pillars  of  the  door- 
way, shading  her  eyes  with  one  hand,  Nina's  mother. 

He  thought:  " It's  almost  like  coming  home. "  In 
fact,  he  reflected,  it  was  better,  for  he  had  never 
come  home  to  two  kind  women. 

On  the  hill-top  Felix  began  a  tranquil,  indolent 
existence.  He  told  himself  he  was  there  taking  leave 
of  leisure,  and  he  wished  to  enjoy  that  farewell  lin- 
geringly.  Every  morning  when  he  awoke,  leaning 
from  his  window  he  looked  forth  lazily,  replete  with 
placid  satisfaction. 

The  house  stood  high.  Below  it,  on  all  sides 
stretched  out  undulating  vistas,  vivid  in  sunlight, 
bluish  in  great  spots  beneath  eclipsing  clouds,  fading 
at  middle  distance  into  a  haze  of  old-gold  summits 
and  vague  valleys  touched  with  shades  of  golden 
green.  Through  that  region,  winding  roads  lay  like 
yellow  threads  cast  down  at  random;  among  the 
hills  church  spires  of  distant  hamlets  stuck  up  like 
needle  points;  and  on  the  horizon  sparkled  the 
water  of  Long  Island  Sound,  as  tenuous  and  keen 
as  a  thin  edge  of  steel. 

The  air  of  a  new  day  drifted  through  the  long,  open 
windows  of  the  breakfast-room.  On  the  table  the 
silver  and  the  glassware  glittered  in  the  clear  light; 


EILEEN  27 

a  blue  flame  flickered  underneath  the  coffee-pot ;  the 
flagrant  red  and  yellow  of  nasturtiums  in  a  crystal 
bowl  epitomized,  for  Felix,  the  vigorous  beauty  of 
the  morning.  Seated  at  breakfast  between  the 
mother  and  the  daughter,  he  had  sensations  of  do- 
mesticity that  softened  him. 

When,  after  breakfast,  he  made  the  rounds  of  the 
farm  with  Nina,  the  whole  world  seemed  so  freshly 
washed,  so  pure,  that  all  his  thoughts  were  simple, 
guileless,  and  immaculate.  He  felt  full  of  kindly, 
innocent  impulses.  Looking  about  him — at  the  sun- 
light on  the  hills,  the  sky,  the  birds  in  flight — he 
thought,  with  a  thrill  of  exaltation:  "How  beautiful 
the  world  is!"  He  appreciated  everything.  He 
shared  with  Nina  all  her  enthusiasms. 

In  the  stables,  which  smelled  of  clean  straw  and 
ammonia,  he  caught  her  affection  for  the  horses,  her 
pride  in  their  fineness,  her  anxiety  when  any  one  of 
them  fell  ill.  In  the  barn-yard  he  counted  eggs  with 
her;  they  drove  a  brood  of  fledglings  to  and  fro,  to  see 
them  scamper;  they  laughed  together  at  the  haughty 
airs  of  old  roosters.  In  the  kennels,  where  white  bull- 
terriers  came  rushing  forth  with  yelps  and  whines  of 
welcome,  he  was  pleased  at  the  fondness  that  so  many 
dumb  things  showed  for  him.  Nina  gave  him  a 
five  months'  old  puppy,  whose  parents  had  both 
won  ribbons  at  "bench  shows."  Felix  named  the 
dog  Pat,  and  taught  him  to  fetch,  lie  down,  go  home, 
and  heel.  The  little,  shambling  beast  followed  his 
new  master  everywhere,  howled  outside  closed  win- 
dows, scratched  the  sills,  brought  in  dead  birds  that 


28  PREDESTINED 

he  had  found  in  the  fields,  frisked  through  the 
flowers,  hid  bones  among  the  roses,  had  to  be  cuffed 
every  hour. 

In  the  garden  enclosed  by  trellises,  its  plats  defined 
by  narrow  gravel  paths,  Felix  lounged  on  a  bench 
with  a  book  while  Nina  tended  rows  of  blossoms. 
The  rose-stems  drooped  with  the  weight  of  full-blown 
petals,  on  the  smooth  surfaces  of  which  lay  little  drops 
—like  tears,  as  Felix  thought,  on  satiny  cheeks.  The 
daisies  made  him  think  of  simplicity — of  young  girls 
in  white  dresses.  Mignonette  exhaled  a  dainty, 
languorous  redolence;  he  imagined,  while  smelling 
it,  moonlit  balconies  covered  with  pale  flowers  to 
which  dark  chamber  windows  opened.  But  the 
forced  tuberoses,  with  their  excessive,  almost  cor- 
poreal sweetness,  suggested,  to  his  amazement,  the 
intoxication  of  a  long  embrace.  He  looked  at  Nina. 
She  was  stooping,  with  scissors  and  a  wicker  basket, 
before  the  flower  borders.  Her  back  was  toward 
him.  The  thin  stuff  of  her  dull-blue  dress  was 
stretched  across  her  shoulders;  about  her,  on  the 
gravel,  her  full  skirt  belled  out.  Felix,  watching  her, 
was  lost  in  curiosity.  Had  she,  too,  sometime  be- 
lieved herself  in  love  ?  What  sentimental  experiences 
did  she  remember?  These  questions  Felix  found 
peculiarly  engrossing. 

She  had  a  fine  figure,  but  feared  that  she  was  grow- 
ing stout.  To  avoid  that  she  had  got  made  an  India- 
rubber  coat,  skin-tight,  which  she  put  on  underneath 
her  clothes  when  she  went  riding.  She  weighed  her- 
self every  morning,  examined  her  shape  in  mirrors 


EILEEN  29 

with  anxiety,  and  was  in  the  habit  of  asking  Felix  over 
her  shoulder,  while  smoothing  down  her  skirt  about 
her  hips: 

"Do  you  think  I've  taken  any  off  to-day?" 

Every  day  they  rode  abroad  through  the  country 
lanes,  searching  out  unfrequented  ways  where  sumac 
bushes  hung  in  wild  tangles  over  the  edges  of  the 
gullies  and  the  road-bed  was  soft  for  galloping. 

She  rode  astride,  in  a  gray  skirt  and  a  white  waist, 
with  stained  gloves  on  her  hands,  bareheaded,  ruddy, 
alert. 

"Come  on,  Felix!" 

They  went  at  full  speed  to  a  swift  thudding  of 
hoofs  and  a  patter  of  flying  pebbles.  Protruding 
twigs  tore  at  their  shoulders;  they  lowered  their 
heads  sharply  to  escape  branches  of  outgrowing  sap- 
lings; knee  to  knee  in  the  narrow  road,  each  strove  to 
pass  the  other.  They  forgot  everything  but  the  rush- 
ing of  the  wind,  the  cadence  of  the  gallop,  the  spas- 
modic plunges  of  the  beasts  beneath  them.  At  sharp 
corners,  seized  suddenly  with  apprehension  when  it 
was  too  late  to  pull  up,  they  shouted  frantically: 

"Look  out  ahead!" 

Sometimes,  after  a  long  ride,  they  would  walk  their 
horses  all  the  way  home.  They  talked  of  themselves, 
of  their  ideas,  perhaps  of  their  impressions  got  from 
the  books  which  they  had  read  the  night  before,  of 
what  they  liked  and  disliked,  of  the  things  that 
affected  them  the  most.  And  their  conversations 
would  be  interrupted,  now  and  then,  by  such  excla- 
mations as :  "Has  that  occurred  to  you,  too ? "  "  You 


30  PREDESTINED 

feel  that  way  also?"  "Imagine  your  having  thought 
of  that!"  'Then  you  can  understand  me  when  I 
say  .  .  ."  Finishing  their  discussions,  riding  on  in 
silence,  they  would  feel  a  peculiar  contentment, 
tinctured  with  surprise,  at  being  able  to  express  their 
thoughts  so  clearly  to  each  other. 

Where  old  stone  boundary  walls  beside  the  road 
were  masked  with  honeysuckle  they  heard  the  wild 
bees  droning.  Where,  at  the  entrances  of  little 
woods,  the  tree  tops  came  together  overhead,  passing 
into  spaces  of  cool  shadows,  they  smelled  moist  moss 
and  loam,  and  listened,  with  upturned  faces,  to  the 
unexpected,  capricious  melody  of  birds.  Occasion- 
ally, while  climbing  their  own  hill,  they  were  sur- 
prised to  discover  high  in  the  fading  blue  the  pallid 
outline  of  the  moon,  almost  invisible.  They  turned, 
on  the  ascent,  to  gaze  back  at  the  purple  shadows 
lying  in  the  valleys,  the  obscuration  of  the  east,  the 
first  lamplight  twinkling  in  some  cottage  window. 
For  them  there  was  a  subtle  charm  in  coming  safely 
home  at  nightfall. 

One  evening  when,  tired,  happy,  full  of  tranquillity, 
they  reached  the  summit  of  the  hill,  they  saw  stand- 
ing before  the  house  an  automobile.  A  visitor  had 
arrived!  They  found  him  sitting  with  Mrs.  Ferrol  in 
the  dusky  library.  He  rose — a  tall,  thin  shape — 
and  took  a  step  forward.  A  quiet  voice  said: 

"Nina?" 

She  gave  a  start. 

It  was  an  old  admirer  of  Nina's  who  had  been 
travelling  in  Europe  for  his  health.  Landing  un- 


EILEEN  31 

expectedly  that  morning  in  New  York,  he  had  just 
got  back  to  his  father's  summer  home,  which  lay  some 
fifteen  miles  away  across  the  hills. 

His  name  was  Denis  Droyt.  He  was  a  sedate 
young  man,  rather  old  for  his  age,  of  steady  habits, 
always  full  of  that  serene  assurance  which  comes  from 
contemplation  of  such  assets  as  a  secure  place  in  good 
society  and  an  impregnable  fortune.  When  in  New 
York,  he  occupied  a  position  in  his  father's  bank. 
By  matrons  he  was  called  a  "very  sensible  young 
man" ;  young  girls,  with  vague  expressions,  admitted 
that  "one  must  respect  him,"  and  brothers  described 
him  to  marriageable  sisters  as  a  "good  risk." 

In  the  library  the  lamps  were  lighted:  the  new- 
comer was  revealed.  His  narrow  skull  was  becoming 
prematurely  bald  on  top;  the  scalp  showed  slightly 
through  short  yellow  hair  as  downy  as  a  baby's.  He 
had  small  gray  eyes,  an  aquiline  nose,  a  long  chin. 
His  features  were  expressionless.  Pale  and  thin,  he 
seemed  far  from  robust,  though  he  assured  his  friends 
that  he  had  entirely  recovered  from  the  nervousness 
on  account  of  which  he  had  been  travelling. 

He  was  sitting  in  what  Nina  reminded  him  was 
"his  old  chair."  Mrs.  Ferrol,  while  making  him  a 
cup  of  tea,  remembered  that  he  liked  two  lumps  of 
sugar.  Nina,  getting  him  cigarettes,  asked  him  if  he 
still  smoked  that  kind.  Felix  sat  staring  at  him  with 
a  feeling  of  resentment.  The  fellow  certainly  looked 
Very  much  at  home! 

Nina  and  her  mother  expressed  delight  at  seeing 
him.  So  he  was  going  to  live  for  a  while  in  the 


32  PREDESTINED 

country — right  across  the  way,  if  one  considered 
automobiles!  They  would  be  neighbors  again.  How 
pleasant,  especially  for  Felix,  who  "must  be  getting 
tired  of  women."  The  eyes  of  the  two  young  men 
met;  and  Denis  Droyt  murmured  a  sympathetic 
phrase  regarding  Felix's  bereavement. 

"A  friend  of  ours  wrote  me  about  it,  and  said  you 
had  come  out  here.  By  a  lucky  chance  I  happened 
to  get  the  letter  just  before  I  left  the  other  side." 

He  stayed  for  dinner.  Sitting  in  the  place  that 
Felix  usually  occupied,  he  entertained  the  ladies  with 
stories  of  his  journeyings.  Warmed  by  their  flatter- 
ing attention  and  enthusiasm,  little  by  little  he  ex- 
panded in  his  manner;  he  blossomed  into  the  tradi- 
tional voyager  from  afar,  the  spinner  of  tales,  the 
weaver  of  enchantments.  To  Felix  he  seemed  like 
that  "universal  witness"  who  is  always  on  hand 
when  anything  sensational  occurs.  Had  they  read 
in  the  papers  a  certain  bit  of  foreign  news  ?  He  was 
there;  he  had  the  right  of  it.  At  the  German  yacht 
races  he  had  seen  a  royal  sloop  in  collision;  he  had 
watched  a  mob  burn  the  betting  booths  at  Long- 
champs;  he  had  happened  to  be  on  hand  when  'a 
poor,  ruined  gambler  at  Monte  Carlo  jumped  from 
a  bridge  and  dashed  himself  to  pieces  on  the  rocks.. 

"Weren't  you  horrified?"  ejaculated  Nina,  gazing 
at  him  fascinated.  Looking  very  cool  and  brave,  he 
answered: 

"Why,  not  at  all.  Perhaps  it  was  the  moon,  the 
strange  scenery,  and  everything  that  made  it  seem 
quite  like  a  play." 


EILEEN  33 

Felix  could  hardly  repress  a  gesture  of  irritation. 
What  tales  he  could  have  related — of  China,  of  India, 
of  Arabia!  He  felt  a  great  contempt  for  people  who 
retail  with  gusto  the  same  old  stories  that  every 
excursionist  has  told.  He  said,  indifferently: 

"Some  one  kills  himself  at  Monte  Carlo  every 
day." 

In  the  morning,  when  he  awoke,  Felix  asked  him- 
self at  once:  "What  unpleasant  thing  has  hap- 
pened?" And  he  remembered  Denis  Droyt.  Why 
the  devil  had  he  turned  up  here?  Now  he  would 
be  hanging  round  all  the  time :  everything  would  be 
different.  The  farm  already  seemed  less  homelike. 

In  fact,  that  was  the  beginning  of  a  new  order  of 
living  on  the  hill. 

Every  day,  if  Droyt  did  not  appear  in  the  morning, 
at  least  he  telephoned  to  make  plans  for  the  afternoon. 
Sometimes  a  note  from  him  awaited  Nina  at  the 
breakfast-table.  A  groom  rode  over  from  his  house 
with  fruit  grown  under  glass,  and  orchids.  He 
sent  her  a  Virginia  hunter  to  try — one  could  not 
enter  the  stable  without  seeing  the  beast's  bony  head 
sticking  over  the  top  of  a  box-stall.  Candy  from 
Droyt  always  lay  on  the  library  table.  And  every 
morning,  when  she  awoke  in  her  white  bed,  Nina's 
eyes  fell  on  a  writing  set  of  silver  that  he  had  bought 
for  her  in  Paris.  When  he  was  absent,  by  a  thousand 
such  artifices  he  recalled  constantly  to  her  the  thought 
of  him.  His  intentions  were  obvious  to  every  one. 
Immediately  on  his  home-coming  he  had  plunged  into 
courtship  with  tremendous  energy. 


34  PREDESTINED 

As  for  Nina,  her  eyes  grew  brighter,  her  demeanor 
more  alert;  she  even  looked  at  Felix  with  a  sort  of 
suppressed  curiosity  and  eagerness — she  was,  as  one 
might  say,  "on  edge."  It  seemed  that  in  person  she 
expanded  delicately,  took  on  beauty,  became  radiant 
with  swifter  blood.  She  was  like  a  rose  unfolding. 
Felix,  perceiving  the  change  in  her,  said  to  himself  at 
last,  in  amazement:  "She  is  in  love  with  him!" 

At  once  he  felt  like  an  outsider,  an  intruder.  That 
night,  after  dinner,  he  told  Nina  he  was  going  back 
to  town. 

They  were  standing  together  at  an  open  French 
window  in  the  library,  looking  across  the  terraces  and 
out  into  the  darkness.  She  had  on  a  low-neck  dress, 
sky  blue  in  color,  fastened  over  her  shoulders  with 
two  narrow  bands  of  blue  velvet.  Her  hair  was 
wound  round  her  head  in  thick  braids,  like  a  fillet. 
She  wore  a  turquoise  necklace  and  some  finger  rings. 
Droyt  was  expected  for  the  evening;  in  fact,  Nina 
and  Felix,  while  standing  at  the  window,  were  listen- 
ing for  the  sound  of  his  automobile. 

For  a  moment  she  made  no  reply  to  Felix's  an- 
nouncement. She  drummed  with  her  fingers  on  the 
wood- work;  then  she  said: 

"Let's  walk  outside." 

They  went  out  on  the  terrace.  Turning  the  corner 
of  the  house,  they  were  enveloped  in  the  shadows. 

TJie  world  seemed  swimming  in  obscurity;  the 
stars,  as  if  all  withdrawn  to  the  very  limits  of  the 
firmament,  were  hardly  visible.  From  the  damp 
earth  rose  a  delicious  exhalation — that  cool,  sweet 


EILEEN  35 

breath  of  night  in  summer  which  rouses  in  the  heart 
tremulous  emotions  too  delicate  for  comprehension; 
a  longing  for  unknown  ecstasies,  desires  that  one  can 
give  no  name  to. 

She  slipped  her  arm  through  his,  "in  order  not  to 
stumble";  leaning  against  him  gently,  she  kept  pace 
with  him.  As  they  strolled  slowly  through  the  dark- 
ness, stopping  now  and  then  to  look  round  them, 
the  warmth  of  her  bare  shoulder  penetrated  the  thin 
cloth  of  his  sleeve,  and  from  her  hair  and  skin  ema- 
nated an  odor  of  powder  and  sachet.  This  intimate 
fragrance,  this  contact  in  the  gloom,  caused  him  to 
think:  "If  I  were  only  walking  so  with  some  one 
whom  I  loved — who  loved  me!"  What  profit  would 
he  not  find,  then,  in  this  beautiful  night,  mute,  veiled, 
mysterious,  made  for  lovers!  He  felt  lonely,  neg- 
lected, isolated.  A  profound  melancholy  descended 
upon  him. 

She,  for  her  part,  appeared  changed:  her  natural 
exuberance  was  subdued,  all  her  habitual  vigor  had 
melted  into  tender  weakness — she  had  become  cling- 
ing, meek,  entirely  feminine.  It  seemed  that  every- 
thing which  she  perceived  to-night  was  fraught  for 
her  with  romantic  meaning.  She  could  turn  no 
phrase,  about  the  stars,  the  obscurity,  the  enfolding 
hush,  without  a  sentimental  intonation.  Looking  at 
the  sky,  she  quoted,  with  a  sigh: 

"  There  we  heard  the  breath  among  the  grasses  .  .  . 
Well  contented  with  the  spacious  starlight, 
The  cool  wind's  touch,  and  the  deep  blue  distance, 
Till  the  dawn  came  in  with  golden  sandals.  " 


36  PREDESTINED 

"She  is  thinking  of  him,"  he  thought.  And  per- 
ceiving something  indelicate  in  that  revealment,  he 
was  half  angry  with  her.  He  imagined  that,  leaning 
against  him  with  closed  eyes,  she  was  trying  to  make 
herself  believe  he  was  the  other.  He  said,  shortly: 

"I  don't  know  much  about  sandals  for  this  sort  of 
wear,  but  if  you  stand  round  in  the  grass  in  those 
blue  slippers  you'll  get  your  feet  wet." 

She  withdrew  her  arm.  Returning  to  the  path, 
they  found  themselves  before  the  trellises  which 
formed  the  boundaries  of  the  garden.  They  entered 
there;  she  wanted  to  sit  down  among  the  flowers. 
Felix  wiped  a  bench  dry  with  his  handkerchief. 
Leaning  back  on  it,  side  by  side,  they  smelled  the 
tuberoses.  She  remarked,  dreamily: 

"How  sweet  they  are!" 

Again  their  heavy  fragrance,  rising  about  him, 
made  Felix  think  of  the  intoxication  of  a  long  em- 
brace. He  lighted  a  cigarette,  and  the  aroma  of  wet 
blossoms  was  adulterated  with  tobacco  smoke. 

The  burning  tip  of  the  cigarette  cast  over  Nina 
a  vague  glow.  Her  necklace,  all  its  gold  settings 
twinkling,  gave  her  an  unusual  air  of  dainty  artificial- 
ity. Her  blue  dress,  with  its  smooth  silk  shimmering, 
made  her  look  unnaturally  slender,  sleek,  and  elegant. 
And  the  arrangement  of  her  hair — which  to-night  was 
dressed  with  exceptional  fastidiousness — seemed  to 
complete  the  enrichment  of  her  whole  appearance. 
As  he  looked  at  her,  Felix  felt  a  growing  astonish- 
ment and  a  new  respect  for  her.  She  was  almost' like 
a  beautiful  stranger  whom  he  saw  now  for  the  first 


EILEEN  37 

time.  He  was  amazed  that  he  had  never  before 
realized  her  worth.  He  was  like  a  person  who,  every 
day  through  a  lifetime,  has  passed  by  some  familiar 
object  without  noticing  its  charm,  and  who  may  be 
roused  to  appreciation  only  by  a  combination  of  ex- 
traordinary influences. 

She  had  said  something,  but  he  had  not  heard  her; 
and  she  was  forced  to  repeat: 

"Felix,  I  tell  you  I  want  your  advice." 

"Ah.     Very  well." 

"Shall  I  marry  Denis?" 

He  was  silent.     At  last  he  retorted: 

"Why  should  you  ask  me  that?" 

"Because  I'm  not  in  love  with  him." 

He  was  amazed — then,  of  a  sudden,  elated.  He 
exclaimed,  in  a  hearty  tone: 

"Well,  then,  don't  marry  him!" 

"But  I  must  marry  some  one." 

"Marry  a  man  you're  in  love  with." 

She  drew  a  long  breath,  clasped  her  hands  in  her 
lap,  and  asked: 

"Will  you  marry  me?" 

With  his  cigarette  half-way  to  his  mouth,  he  sat 
as  if  thunderstruck.  She  continued,  in  a  voice  that 
trembled  slightly: 

"I  know  how  that  must  sound.  But  I  don't  care. 
I  won't  let  you  go  back  to  town  without  hearing  it. 
I  wish  you  could  have  said  it.  But  you  didn't;  so  J 
have  to. 

"You're  not  in  love  with  me,  but  at  least  I  know 
you're  fond  of  me.  I'd  be  satisfied  with  that.  I'd 


38  PREDESTINED 

be  happy  if  I  could  be  sure  of  having,  all  my  life, 
just  your  sort  of  affection,  full  of  sympathy. 

"We  know  each  other  so  well  that  I  believe  we'd 
never  have  to  fear  any  disillusionment.  Just  as  you 
know  all  my  faults  now,  I  know  all  yours;  but  I 
know  all  your  virtues  and  possibilities  as  well.  I 
think  I  know  your  possibilities  better  than  you  do 
yourself.  I'm  so  afraid,  sometimes,  that  you  won't 
realize  them  fully.  To  think  what  you  could  do  and 
might  miss  doing!  I  want  to  see  you  famous  some 
day — a  great  man,  honored  and  respected  every- 
where for  what  you've  done.  Oh,  my  dear,  if  I  could 
be  with  you  then,  and  know  that  I  had  helped  you! 
No  one  would  ever  be  able  to  say  to  me  that  a  woman 
can  do  nothing." 

And  as  she  expressed  that  thought  her  eyes  shone 
through  the  gloom  with  the  intense  desire  of  an 
aspiring  nature  to  break  the  chains  of  a  subjective 
sex,  to  take  part  in  great  performances — to  be  in  some 
degree  responsible  for  them. 

He  was  dazed;  he  could  not  believe  it.  She  loved 
him ;  she  wanted  to  marry  him ;  she  offered  herself  to 
him!  She,  in  whom  just  this  evening  he  had  discov- 
ered a  personal  seductiveness,  was  pleading  to  be- 
come his  wife !  And  in  imagining  the  worth  of  all  she 
tendered  him  in  proffering  herself,  he  was  unable  to 
avoid  thinking  also  of  the  fortune  that  went  with 
her. 

He  saw  himself,  in  a  future  transformed  and  en- 
riched, living  without  apprehension,  assured  of  every- 
thing. Some  day  the  farm  would  be  his,  and  the 


EILEEN  39 

house  in  town,  and  a  fine  income — a  larger  income 
than  he  would  have  possessed  if  he  had  not  lost  his 
inheritance.  Nothing  was  impossible.  They  would 
live  at  home  in  any  way  they  pleased;  tiring  of  that, 
they  would  travel;  no  corner  of  the  earth  would  be 
too  remote  for  them;  he  even  thought  of  a  great 
yacht  sailing  into  every  sea.  A  part  of  each  year 
they  might  spend  abroad,  occupying  in  gay  capi- 
tals their  own  hotel,  the  sort  of  hotel  he  knew  of — a 
historic  mansion  full  of  splendid  memories,  built  of 
gray  stone  carved  like  lace-work,  with  gables  and 
tourelles  and  noble  chimneys,  and  a  great  entrance 
doorway  where  a  servant,  in  white  stockings  and  a 
laced  coat,  leaned  against  the  jamb.  Or  they  might 
have  a  villa  somewhere  beside  the  blue  sea,  but  no 
ordinary  villa.  He  had  seen  one,  rose-colored,  like 
a  little  castle,  smothered  in  orange-trees  and  ilex- 
trees,  enclosed  in  labyrinthine  gardens;  he  thought 
that  he  could  work  there.  For,  relieved  of  all  anx- 
iety, how  he  would  work!  Every  one  would  marvel 
at  him — a  rich  man  gaining  so  brilliant  a  name, 
rising  so  high,  when  he  might  have  done  nothing  but 
enjoy  himself.  People  passing  by  his  house  would 
look  up  at  the  windows.  They  would  point  him  out 
in  public  places  where,  modestly  ignoring  the  atten- 
tion he  excited,  he  would  shine,  despite  himself,  with 
the  combined  lustre  of  genius  and  of  wealth.  He  sat 
motionless,  dazzled  by  his  thoughts. 

But  suddenly  his  dreams  disintegrated.  An  ap- 
prehension seized  him;  was  he,  indeed,  only  dream- 
ing ?  He  dropped  his  cigarette,  which  had  gone  out. 


40  PREDESTINED 

He  peered  through  the  darkness  at  Nina.  She 
seemed  so  nearly  impalpable  that,  reaching  out  his 
hand,  he  touched  her  arm. 

"Is  it  so  hard  to  decide?" 

She  spoke  as  timidly  as  if  she  were  offering  him 
nothing. 

"How  much  she  must  care  for  me!" 

The  thought  touched  him  to  the  heart.  He  prom- 
ised himself  that  he  would  do  everything  for  her. 
For  all  that  she  would  bring  to  him  he  would  repay 
her  by  making  her  proud  of  him. 

When  he  kissed  her  he  had  a  soft  shock  of  sur- 
prise; the  novelty  of  that  embrace  set  him  to  trem- 
bling. In  the  shadows,  among  the  tuberoses,  she 
had  suddenly  become  desirable  to  him  for  many 
reasons.  He  had  no  difficulty  in  repeating,  over  and 
over,  with  an  accent  of  passion: 

"I  love  you!   I  love  you!" 

"  Oh,  do  you,  Felix  ?"  And,  putting  her  head  upon 
his  shoulder,  she  sobbed  as  if  broken-hearted  in  her 
gratitude. 

It  was  the  clatter  of  Denis  Droyt's  automobile  that 
recalled  them  to  reality.  Returning  to  the  house  they 
met  the  visitor  before  the  door. 

When  Nina  informed  him  that  she  was  going  to 
marry  Felix  he  turned  pale.  A  ghastly  smile  of 
politeness  appeared  upon  his  face.  He  shook  hands 
with  both  of  them,  re-entered  his  automobile,  and  de- 
parted. He  had  not  uttered  a  word. 

"Poor  Denis!"  exclaimed  Nina.  Felix  made  no 
reply;  he  was  occupied  with  something  more  im- 


EILEEN  41 

portant  than  commiseration.  What  was  Mrs.  Ferrol 
going  to  say? 

They  found  Mrs.  Ferrol  in  the  library.  Dressed 
in  black,  she  was  sitting  beside  a  shaded  reading- 
lamp,  which  illumined  with  a  soft  glow  her  small, 
pale  face  and  her  gray  hair,  arranged  in  precise 
waves  upon  her  temples.  Putting  down  her  book, 
she  looked  at  the  two  young  people  with  a  gentle 
smile.  She  said: 

"I  was  hoping  so.  I'm  very  glad,  my  dears.  Ah, 
if  your  mother  were  here  now,  Felix!" 

His  eyes  filled  with  tears.  How  everything  came 
to  him  all  of  a  sudden:  good  fortune,  love,  and  the 
affection  of  a  mother!  What  had  he  ever  done  to 
deserve  such  kindness  and  benevolence? 

"How  can  I  thank  you?"  he  stammered. 

"By  making  Nina  happy,"  she  replied,  and  dried 
her  eyes. 

That  night  Felix  could  not  sleep.  He  rose  from 
his  bed,  went  to  the  window,  and  gazed  out.  The 
world,  he  thought,  had  never  looked  so  beauti- 
ful. 

The  moon  had  risen,  the  color  of  the  heavens  had 
changed — no  longer  black,  it  was  that  serious,  noble 
blue  which  lies  in  the  depths  of  sapphires.  Across 
the  sky  were  spread  long,  trailing  clouds,  scarf-like, 
and  sewn  with  pallid  stars.  In  that  radiance  the 
garden  underneath  the  windows  was  revealed,  its 
gravel  pathways  gleaming  white,  its  flower  beds 
furnished  with  unnatural,  vague  hues.  The  tall 
trees  roundabout  seemed  to  be  wrapped  in  silver 


42  PREDESTINED 

veils;  beyond  them  the  hill-tops  were  repeated  like 
the  majestic,  moonlit  billows  of  some  ocean  of 
enchantment,  until  they  were  lost,  on  the  horizon, 
in  the  shimmering  waters  of  the  sound.  All 
things  appeared  strange,  unstable,  mystic — as  if 
drawing,  down  the  moonbeams,  beauty  from  some 
lovelier  world.  Flowers  blossom  in  sunshine,  hearts 
in  moonlight.  It  was  the  hour  for  transports  of  the 
soul. 

The  limpid  rays  shone  down  into  his  eyes;  the 
breeze,  approaching  from  afar  to  a  pervasive  sighing 
sound,  caressed  his  body.  It  seemed  to  him  that 
Nature  touched  him  with  tender,  reassuring  hands. 
A  great  peace  filled  his  heart :  he  had  never  known  a 
like  emotion — that  all  was  well  with  him;  that  a 
supreme  power,  the  same  which  held  the  stars  in 
place,  had  taken  care  and  would  thereafter,  if  he 
chose,  take  care  of  him.  Looking  up  at  the  heavens, 
he  was  possessed  with  the  confidence  of  such  as, 
gazing  in  the  night  toward  those  vast,  ordered  spaces, 
come  to  imagine  clearly  a  divine  benevolence  in  whose 
existence  and  persistence  they  can  trust. 

Presently  he  felt  tears  rolling  down  his  cheeks. 
How  good,  how  valuable  life  was;  how  dazzling  its 
promises;  how  sure,  at  that  moment,  its  triumphant 
consummation!  He  would  have  liked  to  formulate  a 
prayer  of  gratitude. 

But,  since  the  impulses  of  youth  are  rarely  devo- 
tional, the  desire  for  prayer,  when  it  comes  at  last, 
finds  one  awkward — as  if  one  were  struggling  to 
speak  in  a  strange  tongue. 


EILEEN  43 

Finally,  however,  he  achieved,  at  least : 
"I'll  pay  it  back!" 

And  he  pictured  his  lifetime  nobly  spent  in  that 
requital. 


CHAPTER  III 

As  soon  as  his  engagement  to  Nina  was  made 
public,  Felix  felt  that  he  could  bear  no  more  idleness ; 
he  wanted  to  prove  at  once,  to  every  one,  that  he  was 
worthy  of  his  good  fortune.  So  he  said  good-by 
to  Nina  and  her  mother,  full  of  ambition  and  op- 
timism, like  a  young  knight  about  to  plunge  forth 
into  the  unknown  to  find  the  Holy  Grail.  He  was 
going  back  to  the  city,  to  begin,  to  make  his  way,  to 
become  famous. 

As  for  the  two  women,  looking  at  his  bright  eyes 
and  inspirited  countenance,  observing  the  new  assur- 
ance of  his  presence,  they  considered  fame  as  good  as 
in  his  grasp.  For  them,  in  that  moment,  he  was  the 
young  adventurer  of  all  the  ages,  the  hero  setting 
out  from  among  idolizing  women  to  win  the  world. 

Nina  drove  him  to  the  railway  station.  She  shed 
a  few  tears  on  the  way,  but  when,  as  the  train  was 
beginning  to  glide  forward,  Felix  leaned  out  through 
the  open  window  of  the  car,  her  upturned,  earnest 
eyes  shone  clearly. 

" You'll  telephone  to  me  every  morning,  Felix?" 

"Every  morning;  and  write,  too.  Good-by, 
dear." 

"Not  good-by,  Felix!" 

"No,  no;  that's  right.    Not  good-by." 

44 


EILEEN  45 

The  train  rushed  toward  New  York. 

The  fields,  blond  with  ripening  grain,  flowed  past. 
Acres  of  cabbages  appeared,  dull  green,  their  long 
rows,  swiftly  changing  in  perspective,  suggestive  of 
rotating  spokes  in  some  vast  wheel.  Strips  of  wood- 
land burst  out  upon  the  landscape,  closed  in  against 
the  track,  tired  the  eye  with  a  fluttering  repetition  of 
tree  trunks,  then  vanished  suddenly,  exposing  open 
country.  Rail  fences  straggled  by  as  if  alive ;  a  herd 
of  dark-red  cows  were  grazing  in  a  pasture  which 
appeared  to  be  revolving  slowly  under  them ;  a  dust- 
colored  man  was  tramping  toward  a  dilapidated  barn 
that  had  the  look  of  moving  forward  at  him.  A  town 
presented  itself  in  an  instant,  then  melted  into  a  blur 
of  brick  sheds.  The  earth  fell  away;  the  train  rat- 
tled over  trestles ;  far  below  one  glimpsed  a  peaceful 
stream,  undulating  among  willow-trees,  upon  its 
banks  a  group  of  naked  little  boys  who,  while  they 
stood  up  and  waved  their  arms,  were  whisked  out  of 
sight.  Into  large  meadows  came  sailing  lines  of 
boarding  covered  with  gaudy  advertisements.  The 
sky-line  faded  from  soft  green  to  drab;  smoke  ob- 
scured the  horizon,  and  beneath  it  spires,  towers, 
chimneys,  and  high  walls  showed  themselves  above 
a  confusion  of  vague  roofs.  The  fields  melted; 
houses  were  clustered  everywhere ;  one  saw  a  row  of 
dwellings  all  made  from  the  same  pattern — then  a 
dozen  rows,  and  paved  streets  with  lamp-posts.  The 
buildings  were  transformed  from  wood  to  brick ;  flat- 
houses  fled  by  close  beside  the  train;  between  them 
white  mists,  of  drying  undergarments,  flashed  for  a 


46  PREDESTINED 

second.  The  interiors  of  shabby  homes  were  re- 
vealed as  if  in  a  blaze  of  lightning,  and  one  remem- 
bered, when  far  past,  the  woman  above  her  stove, 
the  children  at  a  table,  the  man  in  a  red  undershirt, 
the  tousled  bed.  Factories  loomed  up ;  behind  their 
windows  men  were  moving  to  and  fro  amid  ma- 
chinery; girls  were  sitting  in  long  rows,  their  hands 
all  fluttering;  steam  was  escaping  over  the  roofs; 
drays  were  crowding  the  streets.  The  successive 
vistas,  compressed,  confused,  bewildering  because 
of  the  variety  of  activities  they  revealed,  seemed  re- 
duced, finally,  to  one  long  blur  in  monotone  epito- 
mizing work. 

While  the  train  sped  forward  into  New  York,  Felix 
felt  closing  round  him  an  atmosphere  surcharged  with 
energy.  He  was  affected  by  it.  He  felt  so  strong,  so 
capable,  so  sure  of  himself,  that  already  he  could  see 
the  great  city  offering  him  homage. 

He  went  at  once  to  the  office  of  the  lawyer  who  had 
taken  him  into  the  woods.  Entering  a  "sky-scraper" 
in  Broad  Street,  he  ascended  in  an  elevator  to  the 
thirteenth  floor.  In  an  antechamber,  carpeted  with 
green  Wilton,  a  youth  disappeared  with  his  card 
behind  a  door,  on  the  ground-glass  panel  of  which 
was  painted:  "Mr.  Wickit."  The  door  burst  open, 
disclosing  a  room  full  of  mahogany  office  furniture, 
law-books  bound  in  yellow  leather,  black  tin  boxes; 
out  strode  Felix's  friend,  lean,  gray-haired,  sharp- 
featured,  smiling,  both  hands  extended. 

"My  dear  boy,  my  congratulations."  And  when 
they  were  in  the  private  office  Mr.  Wickit  added,  with 


EILEEN  47 

a  knowing  and  admiring  expression:  "To  think  that 
I'd  lost  patience  with  you  for  wasting  time  out  there ! " 

They  sat  down  for  a  chat.  Felix  resented  Mr. 
Wickit's  attitude;  from  it  one  would  have  thought 
that  they  enjoyed  a  secret  understanding.  The  law- 
yer apparently  believed  that  Felix  had  deliberately 
gone  out  fortune-hunting  and  brought  down  a  fine 
prize.  And  Felix,  with  a  sinking  sensation  at  his 
heart,  reflected:  "Just  now  it  would  be  impossible 
to  convince  him,  or  any  one  else,  otherwise.  How 
maliciously  unfair  people  are!"  He  was  filled  with 
righteous  indignation  at  that  thought.  He  said, 
somewhat  stiffly : 

"I  came  to  ask  you  for  some  advice  before  setting 
in  to  work." 

"Certainly,"  returned  the  lawyer,  smoothing  his 
face  into  an  expression  of  concern.  "You're  more 
determined  than  ever  now,  I  suppose;  you  don't  in- 
tend to  occupy  an  equivocal  position,  eh  ?  Of  course 
not.  That  does  you  credit;  but  I  knew  it  would 
occur  to  you.  Well,  what  did  you  think  of  doing?" 

"I'm  going  to  write." 

"You  persist  in  that  idea?" 

Mr.  Wickit  looked  serious.     Finally  he  said: 

"Recently  I  met  Oliver  Corquill,  the  novelist.  I 
talked  to  him  about  you  and  the  intentions  you  had 
when  we  were  in  the  woods.  He  told  me  some  things 
you  ought  to  know  before  you  rush  into  that  profes- 
sion. We'll  lunch  with  him  to-day,  if  you're  at 
liberty." 

"At  liberty— to  meet  Oliver  Corquill?" 


48  PREDESTINED 

To  make  that  acquaintance  Felix  would  have  been 
at  liberty  if  he  had  contracted  a  conflicting  engage- 
ment even  with  Nina. 

Oliver  Corquill,  still  spoken  of  as  a  young  man, 
was  one  of  those  fortunate  writers  who  are  able  to 
produce,  every  year  or  so,  a  novel  of  the  sort  called, 
in  publishers'  parlance,  a  "best  seller."  So  accu- 
rately had  he  gauged  the  appetite  of  the  reading 
public,  that  for  the  mental  refreshment  he  provided 
there  was  a  continual  demand.  And  so  adroitly  did 
he  conceal  beneath  the  surface  in  his  tales  an  ad- 
mirable art,  that  professional  critics  united  in  ac- 
claiming him.  In  consequence  he  enjoyed  both 
fame  and  fortune. 

Felix  and  Mr.  Wickit,  dashing  uptown  in  an  elec- 
tric hansom,  met  him  in  a  club-house  near  Fifth 
Avenue.  The  novelist  was  a  quiet-looking  man  at 
whom  Felix  ordinarily  would  not  have  glanced  twice. 
His  smooth-shaven  face  was  prosaic  and  illegible; 
his  clothes  were  unobtrusive ;  his  hair  was  very  short ; 
his  whole  aspect  suggested  that  he  had  just  stepped 
out  of  a  business  office.  Nevertheless,  for  Felix 
everything  about  him  possessed  a  peculiar  distinction. 
The  young  man  thought  the  face  of  the  celebrity 
remarkable,  was  impressed  by  his  manner,  wondered 
what  romance  was  connected  with  the  scarab  pin  in 
his  cravat,  noticed  that  his  collar  had  pointed  tips 
instead  of  round,  and,  when  Corquill  opened  his 
mouth,  listened  with  feelings  of  respect  and  modesty. 
He  could  not  help  looking  round  the  club  restaurant 
to  see  if  others  observed  the  company  that  he  was  in. 


EILEEN  49 

At  the  table,  Mr.  Wickit,  with  a  genial  grin,  said: 

"This  is  the  young  man,  Mr.  Corquill,  who  wants 
to  be  a  writer.  I  wish  you  'd  discourage  him  for  me." 

"I  almost  wish  I  could,"  answered  Corquill,  gazing 
at  Felix  with  a  kindly  smile  that  changed  his  face  as 
if  a  mellow  light  had  suddenly  been  thrown  upon  it. 
Then,  in  reply  to  the  look  that  expressed  Felix's 
amazement,  he  explained: 

"I  say  that  because  I'm  afraid  you'd  go  into  this 
business  with  the  popular  idea  of  it. 

"Nearly  every  one  with  a  good  education  and 
some  imagination  has  thought  that  he  could  scratch 
off  at  least  a  story.  Very  many  persons  are  seduced 
by  this  belief  into  contemplating  a  career  in  literature. 
Men  who  have  failed  in  other  professions,  lonely 
ladies,  young  girls  brimming  over  with  indefinite 
cravings,  young  men  who  desire  to  entrance  every 
one  with  the  thoughts  that  seem  to  them  entrancing, 
all  say  to  themselves:  'At  least,  I  can  write  a  book.' 
How  do  they  set  about  it  ?  They  sit  down  at  a  desk, 
prepare  some  paper,  take  up  a  pen,  and  begin." 

"Of  course,"  thought  Felix. 

Corquill  continued,  with  increasing  animation: 
>  "They  have  begun  with  the  popular  idea:  that 
literature  is,  of  all  the  arts,  the  one  in  which  any 
novice  can  surpass  at  once.  Does  a  young  girl,  after 
walking  through  the  Metropolitan  Gallery,  go  home 
and  set  up  a  great  canvas,  expecting  to  paint  a 
picture  in  the  style  of  Rosa  Bonheur  ?  Does  a  young 
man,  on  finishing  an  inspection  of  the  Elgin  Marbles, 
rush  off  and  buy  a  block  of  stone,  convinced  that  he 


50  PREDESTINED 

can  carve  a  Theseus  in  the  manner  of  Phidias?  I 
think  not.  But  the  tyro,  who  sits  down  at  his  desk 
and  says:  'Now  I  shall  write  a  book,'  expects  to 
astound  every  one  immediately  with  his  genius. 

"What  is  the  result  with  him?  Confusion,  irrita- 
tion, anguish  at  his  impotence — he's  lucky  if  he  doesn't 
think  of  suicide.  Ah,  my  dear  young  man,  what 
agonies  and  incoherent,  vain  hopes  are  wrapped  up  in 
the  first  manuscripts  of  these  poor  people!  It's  true 
that  now  and  then  such  things  get  printed;  but  just 
as  we  have  enough  chromos  in  the  world  already,  and 
enough  papier-mache  statuary,  so  we  have  already 
enough  books  made  by  the  misguided  souls  who  are 
not  writing,  but  merely  practising  at  writing. 

"Now,  if  a  young  man  came  to  me  and  said:  'I 
want  to  become  a  writer,'  I  should  reply  to  him: 
'  I  presuppose  that  you  have  thoughts  worth  recount- 
ing, so  I  pass  that  point  by.  But  are  you  very  pa- 
tient? Are  you  very  industrious?  Can  you  bear 
disappointments,  discouragements,  defeats?  Have 
you  an  inflexible  determination?  Then,  if  you  are 
so  equipped,  this  is  wrhat  I  should  advise  you  to  do: 
Study  every  day  text-books  of  literature  and  the  works 
of  great  writers.  Shut  yourself  in;  write;  tear  up; 
write;  tear  up;  keep  nothing — everything  you  do  is 
worthless.  Get  a  position  on  the  best  newspaper  in 
the  country — say,  The  Sphere — and  when  you  have 
had  a  million  words  of  yours  printed  in  its  columns, 
then  write  your  first  book,  bring  it  to  me,  and  I'll  tell 
you  whether  you  will  ever  amount  to  anything.' ' 

Felix  sat  silent. 


EILEEN  51 

Oliver  Corquill,  watching  him,  concluded  with  a 
frank  laugh: 

"This  discourse  is  intended  for  a  serious  young 
man  with  high  ideals." 

Felix  drew  a  long  breath. 

"Thank  you,"  he  said,  in  a  low  voice. 

The  novelist,  with  a  polite  gesture,  promptly  ban- 
ished the  animation  from  his  face,  resumed  his  illeg- 
ible expression,  and  went  on  eating  without  another 
word. 

After  luncheon,  when  Felix  and  Mr.  Wickit,  in  the 
lobby  of  the  club-house,  had  said  good-by  to  Cor- 
quill, the  lawyer  asked  his  young  friend: 

"Are  you  still  determined?" 

"Perhaps  more  so.  Now  I'm  going  down  to  the 
editor  of  The  Spltere  to  ask  him  for  a  job.  If  he'll 
let  me,  I'll  begin  to-morrow  morning."  As  he  said 
that,  Felix  could  not  help  feeling  proud  of  himself. 

Mr.  Wickit,  after  a  moment's  thought,  shrugged 
his  shoulders.  With  a  quizzical  expression  he  re- 
turned : 

"After  all,  what's  the  difference?  In  a  year's 
time—  By  the  way,  is  this  engagement  of  yours 
and  Miss  Ferrol's  going  to  be  a  long  one?  If  I 
remember,  you  have  less  than  fifteen  hundred  dollars 
in  the  bank?" 

Mr.  Wickit  closed  his  eyes,  tapped  his  teeth,  then 
sat  down  at  a  writing-desk  near  by.  In  a  moment 
he  held  out  to  Felix  a  freshly  blotted  check.  It  was 
for  one  thousand  dollars. 

"Pay  it  back  later."     And  the  lawyer,  smiling 


52  PREDESTINED 

shrewdly  at  the  boy,  looked,  with  his  lean,  yellow  face 
wrinkled  round  the  mouth,  somewhat  like  a  benevo- 
lent old  bandit. 

Felix  was  overwhelmed.  "How  I've  misjudged 
him,"  he  thought  remorsefully.  He  was  unable  to 
express  his  thanks  to  Mr.  Wickit — all  of  whose  cynical 
insinuations  were  excused  instantly — in  whom  Felix, 
at  this  princely  generosity,  could  perceive  only  the 
most  praiseworthy  qualities.  A  thousand  dollars! 
That  sum,  which  a  few  months  before  would  not  have 
seemed  at  all  remarkable  to  Felix,  appeared  now  like 
a  little  fortune.  When  he  set  out  for  the  office  of 
The  Sphere,  from  time  to  time  he  patted  the  wallet 
in  his  breast  pocket,  to  assure  himself  that  it  was 
safe.  When  he  touched  it  he  was  fortified;  that 
contact  with  money  imparted  even  to  his  body  an 
exceptional  vigor;  and  he  approached  his  destina- 
tion with  the  independent  bearing  of  a  man  who, 
instead  of  asking  favors  anxiously,  demands  them. 

The  Sphere,  a  daily  newspaper  noted  for  its  literary 
brilliancy,  was  published  in  a  little,  old  building  of 
discolored  brick,  which,  shabby  and  insignificant 
amid  modern  "sky-scrapers,"  faced  westward  on 
the  City  Hall  Park.  Delivery  wagons  and  trucks 
laden  with  great  rolls  of  paper  blocked  the  street 
before  it;  about  its  doors  swarmed  newsboys;  and 
on  the  narrow  pavement  pedestrians  hurried  by, 
jostling,  in  two  interminable  streams. 

Felix  entered  the  office  on  the  ground-floor,  where, 
behind  a  long  counter  opposite  the  door,  young  men 
were  folding  newspapers. 


EILEEN  53 

"Where  can  I  find  the  editor?" 

"Two  flights!"  The  youth  whom  Felix  ques- 
tioned jerked  his  head  toward  a  wooden  staircase  on 
the  left. 

From  the  second  story,  where  he  saw  nothing  but 
rough  partitions  and  closed  doors,  Felix  mounted  by 
a  flight  of  spiral  iron  steps  that  ran  up  through  a 
gloomy  shaft.  He  smelled  dust,  steam,  hot  metal. 
A  persistent,  heavy  rumbling  seemed  to  make  the 
whole  building  tremble.  Suddenly,  close  beside  him, 
downward  dropped  a  freight  elevator  laden  with  men 
in  grimy  undershirts.  He  was  next  startled  by  the 
shrill  scream  of  a  circular  saw,  and,  looking  below, 
through  the  interstices  of  the  staircase  he  perceived, 
as  if  at  the  bottom  of  a  well,  a  confusion  of  machinery, 
fires,  caldrons  of  molten  metal,  half-naked  figures 
glistening  with  sweat.  People  began  to  climb  be- 
hind him;  he  pressed  on.  A  boy  with  a  handful  of 
papers,  clattering  down  the  steps,  collided  with  him. 
Three  men,  descending,  waited  impatiently  for  him 
to  pass.  Finally,  he  emerged  into  a  large  room 
floored  with  iron  plates.  Youths  in  leather  aprons 
were  rolling  ponderous,  table-like  objects  back  and 
forth  or  running  about  with  steaming  mats  of  felt. 
Beyond  these  a  swarm  of  men  were  engaged  in  vari- 
ous peculiar  performances.  To  the  left,  some,  with 
armfuls  of  metal  spools,  were  walking  between  lines 
of  small,  racketing  machines.  To  the  right,  others, 
wearing  eye-shades,  were  standing  before  type-cases. 
Ahead,  some  distance  off,  among  a  huddle  of  desks, 
in  a  fog  of  tobacco  smoke,  reporters  in  their- shut- 


54  PREDESTINED 

sleeves  were  writing,  calling  out  to  one  another,  wav- 
ing above  their  heads  large  sheets  of  paper,  which 
boys  snatched  from  their  hands  and  scurried  off  with. 

Felix,  approaching  the  reporters'  desks,  stared 
about  him  blankly.  Nothing  was  as  he  had  ex- 
pected. He  was  bewildered  by  the  strangeness  of 
everything  he  saw,  and  the  confusion.  With  a  mo- 
mentary sensation  of  timidity,  he  wondered  if,  in 
coming  there,  he  had  not  made  a  mistake.  He  felt 
that  he  was  doing  something  exceedingly  fantastic. 

He  attracted  the  attention  of  a  young  man  who 
seemed  to  be  unoccupied.  This  person  had  his 
shirt-sleeves  rolled  up,  wore  on  the  back  of  his  head 
a  black  felt  hat,  and  was  puffing  at  a  disreputable- 
looking  corn-cob  pipe. 

"I'd  like  to  see  the  editor,"  ventured  Felix. 

"You'd  better  wait;  an  edition  is  going  to  press 
now." 

"In  the  afternoon?"  Felix  exclaimed. 

"Ah,  I  think  you've  made  a  mistake.  This  is 
The  Evening  Sphere  office.  The  Morning  Sphere 
is  on  the  floor  below.  The  two  staffs  are  quite  inde- 
pendent of  each  other." 

"What's  the  difference  between  them?" 

"They  publish  at  midnight;  we  publish  four  times 
during  the  day.  Their  hours  are  from  noon  till 
almost  any  time;  ours  are  from  eight  in  the  morning 
until  four." 

"Indeed,"  said  Felix,  with  a  more  nearly  satisfied 
expression.  "Then  this  is  the  editor  I'm  after!" 

He  found  the  editor  of  The  Evening  Sphere  in  a 


EILEEN  55 

box-like  compartment  somewhat  larger  than  a  cup- 
board, at  a  disordered  desk,  knee-deep  in  crumpled 
papers,  in  his  shirt-sleeves,  smoking  a  cigar.  The 
journalist  was  small  and  delicate,  with  a  gentle  face 
and  a  cautious  manner. 
!  "Mr.  Piers?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Take  a  seat  if  you  can." 

When  Felix  had  explained  his  wishes — which  he 
did  a  little  as  a  church-goer  repeats  a  creed  the  worth 
of  which  he  is  beginning  to  doubt — at  once  the  editor 
looked  sad  and  tired.  The  newspaper's  staff  was 
complete;  besides,  there  was  a  long  "waiting  list"; 
the  managers  even  thought  of  getting  rid  of  a  reporter 
or  two — they  had  so  many ;  and  so  on.  Felix,  rising, 
without  feeling  much  downcast,  prepared  to  take 
prompt  leave. 

"Wait  a  minute.  I've  not  finished,"  the  editor 
said,  staring  at  him. 

Beginners  were  a  speculation,  pure  and  simple. 
After  careful  training  they  might  be  of  some  use- 
again,  they  might  not.  At  any  rate,  Felix  was  to 
understand,  they  were  not  worth  much  to  a  news- 
paper. "A  beginner,"  gently  remarked  the  editor, 
"would  surely  not  be  worth  more  than  fifteen  dollars 
a  week."  And  he  glanced  speculatively  at  Felix, 
who  happened  to  be  wearing  a  suit  of  dark-gray 
English  flannel,  silk  shirt  and  stockings,  chamois- 
skin  gloves,  and  a  fine  pearl  in  his  cravat. 

Felix,  for  his  part,  had  conflicting  thoughts.  While 
fifteen  dollars  a  week  did  not  at  once  seem  to  him 


56  PREDESTINED 

small  earnings,  since  he  had  never  earned  a  penny, 
he  felt  an  impulse  to  appear  indifferent  on  that  point. 
He  took  out  a  cigarette,  in  order  to  exhibit  as  if 
casually  his  gold  cigarette-case;  he  even  wished  that 
in  some  apparently  accidental  way  he  could  manage, 
to  display  the  thousand-dollar  check. 

The  editor  inquired,  abruptly: 

"Mr.  Piers,  are  you  doing  this  on  a  bet  or  for  a 
whim?" 

"I'm  doing  it  because  I  want  to  learn  to  write 
good  English." 

"That's  your  object?  Well,  I  will  give  you  fif- 
teen dollars  a  week.  Can  you  begin  at  once?" 

"Why,  thank  you,  yes." 

"Go  outside,  sir,  and  sit  down." 

Felix  was  a  reporter.  It  did  not  occur  to  him  to 
be  elated  or  surprised  at  the  ease  with  which  he  had 
secured  that  position.  With  a  wry  smile,  he  asked 
himself:  "What  will  Nina  say — and  everybody 
else?" 

That  was  the  beginning,  for  Felix,  of  a  new  epoch. 
He  found  himself  one  of  those  young  men  who  hurry 
forth  throughout  the  city  at  the  first  hint  of  unusual 
happenings,  who  pry  into  everything  sensational,  who 
are  present  at  all  curious  episodes,  all  tragedies,  and 
all  disasters.  Doors  opened  at  his  knock,  and,  half- 
unwillingly,  yet  fascinated,  he  peered  in  at  the  secret 
lives  of  strangers.  He  contemplated  degradation; 
he  intruded  on  anguish;  in  awe  he  looked  down  at 
the  mysterious  masks  of  suicides  and  murdered  men. 
He  made  the  old  remark  of  all  beginners  in  that 


EILEEN  57 

business  who  are  sensitive:  he  had  discovered  the 
"Human  Comedy" — the  comedy  of  human  hearts, 
absurd,  grotesque,  repulsive,  terrible. 

In  these  first  days,  while  hurrying  back  to  the 
newspaper  office,  Felix  would  see,  as  if  they  were 
before  him  still,  the  eyes  of  the  abandoned  wife; 
the  waxen  face  of  the  girl  searching  for  her  lover  in 
the  Morgue;  the  little  children  in  the  squalid  flat 
peeping  into  the  parlor  at  the  coffin;  the  dead  man 
sprawling  on  the  ground,  his  rival's  weapon  lying 
near  him.  Thrilled  by  his  bit  of  "  Human  Comedy," 
Felix  would  write  in  a  fine  frenzy,  then  hover  near 
the  copy-readers  while  they  slashed  at  his  pages  with 
blue  pencils;  finally,  with  a  feeling  of  suffocation, 
snatch  the  warm  newspapers  and  scan  them  for  his 
story — the  story  he  had  made,  that  fifty  thousand 
eyes  would  see,  but  which,  in  its  deflated  form,  he 
could  hardly  recognize  as  his.  "  They've  cut  the 
best  part  out!"  Still,  no  blue  pencil  could  undo 
the  great  fact — that  he  was  in  print.  When,  riding 
uptown  in  the  trolley-car  from  work,  he  saw  men 
glancing  at  a  certain  column  in  The  Evening  Sphere, 
his  heart  went  out  to  those  readers:  they  were  his 
brothers;  he  had  an  almost  uncontrollable  desire  to 
seize  their  arms,  to  make  them  look  at  him,  to  say  .to 
them:  "I  wrote  that!"  He  cut  out  everything  that 
he  got  printed  and,  at  night,  pasted  all  his  clippings 
in  a  scrap-book. 

Answering  an  advertisement  in  the  newspapers,  he 
had  rented  an  apartment,  furnished,  on  a  top  floor  in 
West  Thirty-second  Street.  He  had  there  a  studio 


58  PREDESTINED 

with  a  skylight,  a  bedroom,  and  a  bath.  The  place 
— which  belonged  to  a  young  artist  with  weak  lungs, 
exiled  in  the  Adirondack  Mountains — was  full  of 
imitation  "antique"  furniture  and  trivial  curiosities. 
Rejected  paintings  lined  the  walls;  a  model's  throne 
stood  in  one  corner;  a  wooden  mannikin  leaned 
against  the  mantel-piece  in  the  feeble  attitude  of  a 
drunken  man;  and  all  the  useless  paraphernalia  of 
an  "  artistic ' '  studio  was  strewn  about.  The  stomach 
of  a  terra-cotta  statuette  was  scratched  with  matches ; 
the  top  of  a  tabouret  was  marked  with  rings  made 
by  wet  glasses ;  the  chair-arms  had  been  burned  by 
cigarettes.  Felix,  with  ingenuous  admiration  for  this 
Bohemian  environment,  considered  himself  lucky  in 
obtaining  such  a  scene  for  his  performances. 

At  night  he  worked  there  faithfully,  studying  liter- 
ature, thinking  always  of  Corquill  and  the  heights 
which  that  celebrity  inhabited.  Such  was  his  en- 
thusiasm and  determination  that  he  took  pleasure 
in  seeing  little  of  his  old  friends — in  taking  the  pose 
of  a  recluse  for  art's  sake.  When  lonely  he  re- 
peated: "All  great  men  live  in  themselves  while  they 
are  cultivating  fame." 

Every  morning,  before  he  left  the  studio,  he  tele- 
phoned to  Nina. 

"Good-morning,  dear." 

"  Good-morning,  sweetheart.  Ten  minutes  late  to- 
day!" 

"Really?    How  are  you  this  morning?" 

"Very  well;  and  how  are  you?" 

Then  there  would  be  a  pause — what  should  he  say 


EILEEN  59 

next?  Could  it  be  possible  that  he  had  exhausted 
every  topic  interesting  at  long  distance? 

He  spent  his  Sundays  on  the  farm.  Nina  always 
met  him  at  the  station.  When  they  reached  the  first 
stretch  of  deserted  road  he  kissed  her.  It  was  always 
at  the  same  spot;  and  always  in  just  the  same  way 
she  held  in  the  spirited  horse,  and  leaned  down  tow- 
ard him  from  her  higher  seat,  her  breast  pressing 
against  his  shoulder,  her  long  eyelashes  lowered  on 
her  cheeks,  her  soft  lips  slightly  pouting.  And  she 
always  wore  the  same  perfume,  simple,  clean-smell- 
ing. In  time,  Felix  ceased  to  notice  it. 

It  was  autumn.  The  countryside  was  touched 
with  that  beauty,  slightly  melancholy,  which  nature 
has  in  its  final,  all  but  languishing,  exuberance. 
Spring,  with  its  soft  breezes  capable  of  thrilling 
hearts  with  strange  delights,  was  now  a  memory; 
and  the  presentiment  of  fall  was  almost  like  a  pre- 
sentiment of  loss.  Where  was  that  first  ethereal 
elation — that  novelty  of  love  among  the  budding 
flowers?  In  autumn  the  foliage  on  the  hills,  the 
blossoming  of  which  one  greeted  with  delight,  has 
grown  familiar. 

All  Felix's  first  amazement  at  his  good  fortune  had 
given  way  to  complacency.  Nina's  love,  Mrs.  Fer- 
rol's  affection,  the  luxurious  home  in  which,  every 
week,  he  took  his  place  he  came  to  regard  finally 
as  a  matter  of  course.  When,  on  Monday  morning, 
he  returned  to  the  newspaper  office,  from  the  anxious, 
struggling  reporters  he  was  distinguished  by  such  an 
air  of  independence  as  comes  with  a  conviction  of 


60  PREDESTINED 

security.  He  was  assured  of  everything.  What  had 
he  to  fear  from  any  one  ? 

One  day,  when  he  was  passing  on  some  errand 
into  the  vestibule  of  the  Supreme  Court  House,  he 
came  face  to  face  with  a  tall,  earnest-looking  young 
man  in  a  brown  cutaway  coat,  who  exclaimed  joy- 
ously : 

" Felix  Piers!     What  are  you  doing  here?" 

This  young  man's  name  was  Gregory  Tambor- 
layne.  He  was  a  lawyer  who  had  been  taken  into  a 
rich  firm  that  safeguarded  various  large  corporations 
in  the  courts.  He  was  an  old  friend  of  Felix's,  but 
for  some  time,  separated  by  divergent  interests,  they 
had  seen  nothing  of  each  other. 

They  had  an  enthusiastic  reunion.  Each  related 
his  experiences. 

Tamborlayne  had  been  married  for  two  years;  his 
wedding  had  taken  place  while  Felix  was  going 
round  the  world.  His  wife,  after  a  summer  spent 
in  Europe,  had  just  returned  to  him.  Felix  must 
meet  her;  he  must  dine  with  them — in  fact,  why 
not  that  night  ? 

Why  not,  indeed?  The  lonely  evenings  in  the 
studio  were  becoming  slightly  irksome. 

At  eight  o'clock  that  night  Felix  presented  him- 
self at  Tamborlayne's  house  in  East  Seventy-ninth 
Street. 

The  drawing-room  in  which  he  found  himself 
was  rose-colored.  Into  the  walls  were  set  tall  panels 
of  rose-colored  silk  covered  with  a  design  of  little 
garlands.  On  the  waxed  parquetry  stood  chairs 


EILEEN  61 

and  sofas  fashioned  in  the  style  of  Louis  XVI, 
their  rose-colored  upholstery  embroidered  with 
slight,  curving  sprays  of  flowers,  their  light  wood- 
work embossed,  fluted,  and  gilded.  Opposite  the 
doorway  was  a  fireplace  of  white  marble  with  a  pink 
silk  fire  screen,  in  a  gilt  frame,  before  it.  On  the 
mantel-piece  stood  a  round  clock  supported  by  six 
marble  columns.  This  ornament  was  flanked  by 
large  urns  of  French  china,  like  the  furniture  sug- 
gestive of  the  eighteenth  century,  with  an  oval  panel 
in  the  front  of  each  on  which  was  painted  a  "Mar- 
quise," with  bold  eyes  and  demure  mouth,  after  the 
manner  of  Watteau.  A  mirror,  extending  from  the 
mantel  to  the  ceiling,  reflected  the  massive,  globular 
pendants  of  a  crystal  chandelier.  At  the  rear  of  the 
apartment  there  glimmered  in  the  gloom  a  beautiful 
harp  and  a  grand-piano,  in  the  same  style  as  the 
furniture — gilded  and  of  chaste  outline.  The  whole 
room,  as  if  reflecting  the  intimate  personality  of  some 
individual,  suggested  daintiness,  fragility,  discretion 
— a  discretion  that  seemed  almost  to  veil  an  inclina- 
tion toward  delicately  sensuous  extravagances. 

There  was  a  light  step  in  the  hall.  Here,  undoubt- 
edly, was  Tamborlayne's  wife.  Felix,  who  had  never 
met  her,  thought:  "Now  we  shall  see  what  he's  done 
for  himself!" 

At  that  moment  she  appeared  in  the  doorway. 

She  was  nearly  as  tall  as  Felix,  slender,  pale,  with 
black  hair.  Felix  did  not  think  her  good-looking, 
but  he  could  not  help  admitting  that  she  had  elegance 
and  was  exquisitely  dressed. 


62  PREDESTINED 

She  wore  a  low-neck,  trailing  gown  of  black  lace 
laid  on  silver  tissue,  which  accentuated  the  smallness 
of  her  waist  and  the  slightness  of  her  hips.  As  she  ad- 
vanced with  softly  rustling  skirts,  her  hair  very  dark, 
her  skin  very  white,  her  eyes  intently  fixed  on  his,  it 
seemed  to  Felix  as  if  something  extraordinary  was 
approaching  him.  Then  she  smiled  slowly. 

"How  do  you  do,  Felix  ? — as  Gregory  always  says." 

His  feeling  of  strangeness  vanished;  they  were 
friends  at  once. 

Her  voice  was  low  and  calm,  her  gestures  all  were 
leisurely  and  graceful;  everything  about  her  ex- 
pressed tranquillity  and  self-confidence.  Felix  ad- 
mired her  behavior,  the  arrangement  of  her  hair,  her 
neck,  in  which,  despite  her  slimness,  were  no  hollows. 
Her  clear,  smooth  skin  contained  a  smothered  lustre. 
She  was,  he  thought,  an  excellent  example  of  what, 
sometimes,  he  chose  to  call,  with  the  manner  of  a 
connoisseur,  "the  hot-house  type" — a  type  in  which 
he  took  small  interest.  He  had  often  said  emphat- 
ically to  other  young  men:  "I  can't  bear  thin,  dead- 
white  women." 

Tamborlayne  came  in  with  a  hearty  greeting. 
Putting  an  arm  round  Felix's  neck,  he  said  to  his 
wife,  whom  he  called  "Eileen": 

"Now  that  I've  found  him  again  I'm  going  to 
hang  on  to  him.  What  a  pity  that  people  lose  track 
of  each  other  so  easily  in  New  York!  Here  I've 
missed  three  years  at  least  of  this  old  fellow's  friend- 
ship. Well,  we'll  make  up  for  it  now — eh,  Felix? 
We'll  revive  old  times.  D'you  remember  the  school- 


EILEEN  63 

days? — the  scrapes  we  used  to  get  into?    We'll  go 
over  it  all  after  dinner. " 

The  young  lawyer,  somewhat  serious  ordinarily, 
looked  as  eager  and  cheerful  as  if,  in  coming  across 
Felix,  he  had  done  himself  a  valuable  service. 

The  dinner-table  was  decorated  with  white  roses 
and  pearl-colored  candle-shades.  The  silver,  of 
which  there  was  a  large  quantity,  made  a  brilliant 
show.  There  was  Venetian  glassware  beside  the 
place-plates,  which  were  covered  with  gold  etched  in 
an  intricate  Persian  design.  Two  English-looking 
man-servants  waited  on  the  table. 

Felix  remembered  that  the  Tamborlayne  family 
had  a  good  deal  of  money.  And  he  pictured  to  him- 
self how,  when  he  was  married,  he  would  entertain 
his  friends  no  less  agreeably.  "Just  wait!"  he 
said  to  himself. 

It  was  a  pleasant  dinner.     The  wine  that  Felix 
drank  aroused  his  eloquence  and  he  described  wittily, 
with  a  pretence  of  whimsical  astonishment,  his  ex- 
ploits in  the  newspaper  office.     His  becoming  a  re- 
porter appeared  like  a  mad  prank.     Tamborlayne, 
laughing  enthusiastically,  looked  like  a  boy  on  a 
holiday;   but  she,  gazing  steadily  at  Felix  while  he, 
talked,  flattered  him  more  by  her  slow,  compre- 
hending smile. 

Soon  after  dinner  Tamborlayne  took  Felix  off  to  his 
"  den, "  on  the  top  floor  of  the  house.  There,  smoking 
pipes,  laughing,  talking  of  old  times,  they  managed 
between  them  to  empty  a  decanter  of  Scotch  whis- 
key. When,  finally,  Felix  rose,  it  was  midnight. 


64  PREDESTINED 

While  he  was  passing  through  the  second  floor  on 
his  way  downstairs  with  Tamborlayne,  she  came  out 
of  a  brightly  illuminated,  yellow  room  to  say  good- 
night to  him.  He  was  vaguely  surprised  that  she  had 
not  yet  gone  to  bed. 

"Nearly  every  afternoon  I'm  in  by  five  o'clock," 
she  said,  in  a  pleasant,  matter-of-fact  tone;  then 
added:  "And  Gregory  is  usually  home  by  six." 

When  she  gave  him  her  cool  hand  he  noticed  at 
once  that  she  had  taken  off  her  rings. 

And  as  he  left  the  house  he  imagined  her  in  a 
yellow  boudoir,  before  the  mirror  of  a  dressing-table 
covered  with  silver  brushes,  vials,  and  jars,  drawing 
her  bracelets  from  her  arms,  putting  on  some  clinging 
robe  of  silk,  and  letting  down  her  thick,  black  hair. 


CHAPTER  IV 

FALL  had  come  to  the  city.  The  restricted  land- 
scapes of  the  public  squares  assumed  that  gray- 
brown,  naked  aspect  which,  at  twilight,  when  win- 
dows brighten  in  tall  buildings  roundabout,  suggests 
to  the  beholder  sombre  reveries.  The  evening  air 
grew  chilly ;  pedestrians  moved  homeward  briskly  be- 
neath foggy  street  lights,  and  on  Fifth  Avenue,  as 
dusk,  like  a  dun  veil  of  gossamer,  was  slowly  settling 
over  everything,  an  endless  procession  of  fine  car- 
riages restored  to  the  thoroughfare  a  patrician  qual- 
ity that  it  had  lacked  all  summer.  The  winter  sea- 
son— the  time  of  dinners,  balls,  and  operas — was 
approaching. 

Nina  and  her  mother  had  returned  to  town.  They 
lived,  when  in  New  York,  on  lower  Fifth  Avenue, 
just  north  of  Washington  Square,  in  one  of  those 
old  brick  houses  of  massive,  plain  exterior,  with  Ionic 
pillars  of  marble  and  a  fanlight  at  the  arched  en- 
trance, that  preserve  unobtrusively,  in  the  midst 
of  a  city  which  is  being  constantly  rebuilt,  the  pure 
beauty  of  colonial  dwellings. 

The  place  was  an  heirloom  of  the  Ferrols  that  had 
been  proudly  kept  for  generations  in  its  pristine  state. 
Mrs.  Ferrol,  from  being  at  first  but  mildly  interested 
in  this  tradition  of  her  late  husband's  family,  had 

6s 


66  PREDESTINED 

come  finally  to  regard  the  house  as  a  sort  of  ancestral 
monument  and  herself  as  its  curator. 

The  walls  were  covered  with  faded  silk  or  with 
"landscape  paper."  From  the  ceilings  were  sus- 
pended slender  chandeliers  on  which  dangled  fringe 
upon  fringe  of  long  glass  prisms.  Beside  the  door- 
ways, branching  candelabra  were  affixed  to  oval, 
gilded  frames  of  misty  mirrors.  The  furniture  was 
all  from  the  period  of  Heppel white.  And  above 
marble  mantel-pieces,  as  mellow  as  if  filled  with  oil, 
hung  large  likenesses  of  simpering  ladies  and  sedate 
gentlemen,  in  quaint  dress  and  uniform,  with  obso- 
lete-looking faces.  Throughout  the  house,  in  short, 
the  same  "antique"  effect  prevailed.  The  expen- 
sive modern  dwellings  of  the  Ferrols'  friends,  situ- 
ated further  uptown,  seemed  almost  like  architect- 
ural parvenus  when  compared  with  this  place,  the 
chaste,  faded  fineness  of  which  was  like  that  of  an 
honorable  old  aristocrat. 

This  formal  environment  was  not,  however,  of  the 
sort  in  which  young  men  are  most  pleased  to  spend 
their  time.  Felix,  who  dined  nearly  every  evening 
at  the  Ferrol  house,  began  to  think,  on  recovering 
from  his  first  enthusiasm,  that  comfort  had  there  been 
somewhat  unreasonably  sacrificed  to  the  hobby  of 
the  family.  It  was  almost  impossible  to  take  lazy 
attitudes  on  the  Heppelwhite  furniture:  the  sofas 
were  too  narrow,  the  chair-backs  too  straight.  And 
in  nearly  every  room  there  was  a  portrait  of  some 
stiff  old  gentleman  who  seemed  to  follow  all  one's 
actions  with  the  forbidding  eyes  of  an  arbiter  of  eti- 


EILEEN  67 

quette.  Felix  at  last  found  these  surroundings  irk- 
some; and  he  resented  secretly  the  "  ancestor- wor- 
ship" that  he  held  responsible  for  his  discomfort. 

Perhaps,  while  sitting  in  the  drawing-room  with 
Nina  after  dinner,  he  would  murmur  solemnly: 
"This  is  the  chair  that  George  Washington  had  to  sit 
in  as  a  punishment  for  chopping  down  the  cherry- 
tree";  or:  "This  sofa  was  used  in  the  Spanish 
Inquisition.  The  question  was  put  to  the  unhappy 
prisoner;  if  he  refused  to  answer,  he  was  stretched 
at  full  length  upon  this  instrument."  He  had 
names  for  all  the  ancestors  portrayed  there,  which  he 
told  Nina  in  private:  one,  whose  face  was  nearly 
covered  with  black  whiskers,  was  "The  Man  in  the 
Iron  Mask";  another,  in  Continental  uniform,  stout 
and  rosy,  was  "The  Little  Lost  Dauphin";  and  a 
figure  in  a  large  wig,  which  had  almost  disappeared 
beneath  a  brownish  murk,  Felix  called  "Adam,  the 
Founder."  One  evening,  when  he  had  been  spend- 
ing a  couple  of  hours  with  some  friends  in  a  hotel  cafe, 
he  stopped  on  his  way  to  the  dining-room  before  this 
portrait,  which  he  saluted,  while  asking  whether 
"the  dinosaurs  were  still  breaking  into  the  garden 
and  getting  at  the  fig-trees." 

Nina,  taking  him  aside  after  dinner,  reproached 
him  with  having  had  "a  little  too  much  to  drink." 

They  were  drawn  into  an  argument,  in  which 
Felix  found  himself  asserting  that  one  must  be  agree- 
able with  one's  friends,  while  Nina,  growing  impa- 
tient, declared  that  she  had  no  sympathy  with  such 
a  point  of  view.  She  liked  to  think  of  Felix  as  dif- 


68  PREDESTINED 

ferent  from  other  young  men.  "For  her  part,  she 
was  not  like  those  girls  who  pretend  to  admire  dis- 
sipation." 

"Dissipation!" 

Felix  said  something  hotly  about  feminine  exagger- 
ation. They  were  both  exasperated.  They  looked 
at  each  other  indignantly.  It  was  their  first  quarrel. 

Presently,  without  kissing  her  good-by,  he  left  her 
standing  motionless  in  the  centre  of  the  drawing-room. 
He  did  not  intend  to  slam  the  front  door;  and  when 
it  came  shut  behind  him  with  a  bang,  for  an  instant 
he  was  frightened.  Departing  in  a  dull  rage,  he 
knew  that  he  was  at  fault;  and  he  was  on  that  ac- 
count all  the  more  angry  with  her.  The  next  after- 
noon, when  he  returned,  she  came  to  him  quickly, 
put  her  arms  round  him,  and  sobbed  on  his  shoulder. 
It  was  she  who  appeared  mutely  to  implore  forgive- 
ness. His  self-respect  was  restored.  Subsequently, 
he  felt  more  assurance  than  before. 

Nina  and  Felix,  who  had  agreed  not  to  be  married 
until  spring,  spent  many  hours  planning  how  they 
should  live  together.  But  every  week  their  schemes 
were  altered  as  new  ideas  came  to  them ;  and  finally, 
of  all  the  pleasant  modes  of  life  at  their  disposal,  they 
were  uncertain  which  to  choose.  Their  future,  in 
which  as  yet  they  could  discern  distinctly  no  details, 
they  contemplated  with  trustful  satisfaction. 

All  days  were  sunny  now  for  Felix;  it  seemed  as 
if  the  current  of  good  fortune,  once  having  begun  to 
flow  in  his  direction,  was  growing  ever  fuller.  When 
he  went  about,  those  who  before  had  given  him  but 


EILEEN  69 

vague  bows  greeted  him  with  kind  smiles,  stopped 
him  on  the  pavement  for  a  moment's  cordial  con- 
versation, called  him  to  the  steps  of  carriages  in  order 
to  shake  hands  with  him.  The  women  of  that  circle 
in  which  Mrs.  Ferrol  lived  now  turned  toward  him, 
whenever  he  encountered  them,  eyes  full  of  friendly 
interest ;  and  Felix — who  but  a  few  months  since  had 
felt  himself  in  danger  of  slipping  gradually  from  the 
gentle  world  to  which  he  had  been  born — understood 
that  in  this  feminine  attention,  concerted  and  de- 
liberate, lay  the  assurance  of  his  social  future. 

As  for  Mrs.  Ferrol,  no  one  could  have  been  more 
amiable.  She  sent  useful  articles  to  the  studio.  She 
remembered  Felix's  birthday  and,  that  night,  had 
on  the  dinner-table  a  frosted  cake  with  candles. 
Once,  for  a  week,  she  dropped  mysterious  hints,  and 
then,  when  he  arrived  one  evening,  the  front  door 
was  opened  by  a  bent,  white-haired,  withered  old 
fellow  in  sober  livery,  who  quavered: 

"Master  Felix!" 

It  was  Joseph,  Sheridan  Piers's  old  retainer!  After 
the  disaster,  Mr.  Wickit  had  got  him  a  good  position; 
but  he  had  been  restless — "those  strangers  didn't 
understand  his  ways" —  and  at  last  Mrs.  Ferrol, 
learning  of  his  discontent,  had  taken  him  into  her 
service.  When  he  saw  his  young  master  again,  tears 
filled  his  reddened  eyes;  he  patted  Felix  on  the  arm 
and  hovered  round  him  with  long,  rattling  sniffs. 
He  had  seen  the  boy  grow  up  from  childhood,  had 
made  him  his  first  wooden  whistle,  had  taught  him 
how  to  fold  newspapers  into  cocked  hats.  They 


70  PREDESTINED 

were  both  touched  by  that  meeting;  for  Felix,  at 
sight  of  the  old  man,  remembered,  with  a  flood  of 
longing,  the  lost  home. 

He  sat  down  beside  the  faithful  fellow  on  the  hall 
bench. 

"And  so  you're  a-goin'  to  marry  Miss  Nina? 
Look  at  that,  now!  I  remember  her  no  higher  than 
this,  drivin'  her  little  basket  cart  in  the  park,  as  smart 
as  ye  please.  An'  d'ye  still  keep  up  your  ridin', 
Master  Felix  ?  Faith,  I  'd  love  to  see  ye  on  a  horse 
again.  Remember,  'twas  ould  Joseph  put  ye  on 
your  first  pony." 

"And  I've  got  the  riding-whip  you  gave  me  once, 
Joseph." 

"No,  ye  don't  mean  it!  You're  foolin'  an  ould 
man!" 

"I'll  bring  it  here  next  time  I  go  riding  with  Miss 
Nina." 

And  next  day,  when  Felix  did  so,  Joseph  cried 
out  in  his  gratitude: 

"Ah,  God  bless  ye,  now.  To  think  ye  kep'  it  all 
this  while!" 

In  Central  Park,  where  Nina  and  Felix  often  rode 
toward  nightfall,  moist,  gray  snow,  riddled  with  drip- 
pings from  the  trees,  mantled  the  undulating  ground 
to  the  edges  of  the  bridle-path,  on  which  the  earth- 
colored  slush  was  fetlock-deep,  and  covered  with 
small  pools  each  the  shape  of  a  horse's  hoof.  Twi- 
light enfolded  the  cold  landscape ;  mists  lay  like  long 
scarfs  amid  the  black  brushwood  of  the  hollows,  and 
through  the  naked  tree  tops  shone  yellow  lights,  re- 


EILEEN  71 

mote  and  faint.  Horsemen  went  splashing  by  like 
mounted  ghosts,  each  face  a  pallid  blank.  Where 
the  bridle-path  ran  under  bridges,  one  saw,  leaning 
over  the  parapets  above,  indistinct,  solitary  figures, 
motionless,  mysterious.  An  inexpressible  loneliness 
enveloped  everything,  and  even  thrust  itself  between 
the  two  young  riders.  Saddened  by  their  bleak  sur- 
roundings, they  remembered  with  regret  the  summer- 
time, their  gallops  through  green  lanes — the  hot  sun- 
shine, the  sweet,  soft  breeze,  the  sounds  of  birds  and 
bees,  and  farmers  calling  in  the  fields.  They  were 
unable  to  reproduce  the  pleasure  of  those  delicious 
days. 

In  the  evening,  sometimes  they  went  to  a  dinner 
or  a  theatre  party  or  the  opera.  In  the  darkened 
opera-house  there  glittered  vaguely  overhead  five 
golden  balconies,  each  full  of  shadowy  spectators 
who,  in  the  topmost  gallery,  rising  in  tiers  to  a  height 
that  one  observed  with  dizziness,  looked  like  innu- 
merable tiny  caryatids  supporting  the  vast  golden 
roof.  Before  the  lower  edge  of  the  bright  proscenium 
appeared  the  agitated  head  and  arms  of  the  con- 
ductor; and  from  below  him  rose  the  music  of  the 
orchestra — a  pervasive,  ceaseless  harmony  blending 
with  the  occasional  utterances  of  the  singers ;  a  har- 
mony now  delicate  and  winsome,  now  swelling,  at 
the  union  of  all  instruments,  to  extraordinary  maj- 
esty. And,  on  the  stage,  the  lovers,  as  if  exalted 
by  the  sensuous  music  that  played  round  them,  were 
swept  through  their  sublimated  tragedy,  wherein,  for 
Felix,  love  had  that  remote  grandeur  with  which,  in 


72  PREDESTINED 

his  young  dreams,  he  had  invested  it.  Wistfulness 
stole  over  him,  as  if  he  were  contemplating  some 
unattainable  splendor.  Then  the  curtain  fell;  the 
lights  sprang  up;  people  began  to  talk  and  move 
about ;  he  saw  the  conductor  blowing  his  nose ;  and 
Nina's  familiar  face  recalled  him  to  reality. 

Now  and  then,  from  the  opera  or  the  play,  they 
went  to  a  dance — in  those  days  they  were  always 
invited  out  together;  or  perhaps  Felix  was  always 
invited  then  on  her  account.  In  large,  brilliantly 
illuminated  ballrooms,  embellished  with  gilding,  fes- 
tooned with  hot-house  flowers,  the  music,  with  an 
arpeggio  of  muted  strings,  glided  into  the  languorous 
melodies  of  waltzes.  Here  and  there  upon  the  pol- 
ished floor  appeared  in  motion  two  joined  figures, 
one  in  black,  one  pale  and  shining.  The  dancers 
grew  more  numerous;  the  floor  was  filled  with  them; 
the  colors  of  the  women's  dresses  formed  a  gorgeous 
haze.  One  felt  upon  the  face,  in  little  gusts,  warm 
air  laden  with  perfume.  One  caught  glimpses  mo- 
mentarily of  beautiful  women  whirling  by  with  half- 
closed  eyes,  of  smooth  bosoms  powdered  white,  of 
bare,  dimpled  backs,  of  the  nape  of  a  neck  with  a 
loosened  curl  trembling  on  it.  The  strains  of  the 
violins,  the  rustling  of  swirling  skirts,  and  the  sound 
of  countless  shoe-soles  turning  on  wax  united  in  an 
intoxicating  rhythm.  The  music  ceased;  the  dan- 
cers, with  the  staring  expressions  of  persons  emerging 
from  a  dream,  walked  slowly  toward  the  gilded 
chairs  arranged  in  rows  along  the  walls.  Some  men 
made  off  toward  the  smoking-room,  their  long,  black 


EILEEN  73 

legs  and  coat-tails  giving  them  a  grotesque,  bird-like 
appearance  as  they  departed.  More  remained,  stand- 
ing in  groups,  with  bent  shoulders,  before  women 
who,  sitting  with  their  luminous  trains  spread  out 
beside  them,  smiled  vivaciously  over  their  flutter- 
ing fans.  Around  the  edges  of  the  ballroom  ex- 
tended a  row  of  black  backs,  like  a  broken  hedge; 
and  through  the  intervals  between  these  could  be 
seen  snowy  shoulders,  diamonds,  roses,  twinkling 
dresses.  A  babble  of  voices,  like  the  sound  of  little 
waves  breaking  on  a  beach,  rose  to  the  frescoed 
cupids  floating  in  panels  on  the  ceiling. 

Such  scenes  fresh  in  mind,  Felix  returned  in  the 
morning  to  the  shabby  newspaper  office  with  some- 
what the  sensations  of  a  man  who  leads  a  double 
life.  He  felt  that  he  was  superior  to  that  place;  he 
longed  to  finish  his  apprenticeship  there. 

But  he  discovered  presently  that  his  hours  of  even- 
ing study  were  being  slighted  for  diversions.  When, 
in  the  small  hours  of  the  morning,  he  returned  to  the 
studio  from  some  entertainment,  he  was  troubled  by 
the  sight  of  his  neglected  writing-table.  Then  he 
had  a  touch  of  fear  at  the  thought  that  he  was  ac- 
complishing nothing  of  importance.  He  was  filled 
again  with  virtuous  and  serious  inclinations;  and  all 
those  careless,  laughing  people  in  whose  company  he 
had  amused  himself  seemed  like  so  many  wastrels. 
He  had  no  patience  with  them!  He  told  Nina  ener- 
getically that  he  was  going,  thereafter,  to  work  every 
night;  she  would  have  to  do  without  his  company 
at  such  times.  To  his  surprise,  she  was  greatly 


74  PREDESTINED 

pleased.  She  looked  as  if  her  mind  had  been  re- 
lieved of  some  apprehension. 

Every  evening,  then,  he  shut  himself  in  the  studio. 
The  clock  ticked;  the  fire  crackled;  and  on  the  divan 
the  white  bull-terrier  puppy  that  Nina  had  given 
Felix  sniffed  in  his  sleep  and  twitched  his  legs. 
Felix  stared  at  the  little  beast,  at  the  pictures  on  the 
walls,  at  all  the  trivial  bric-a-brac.  With  a  sigh, 
reluctantly  he  resumed  his  reading.  "It  was  not  all 
beer  and  skittles,  this  studying  literature!"  The 
sleet  lashed  the  skylight ;  the  wind  howled  round  the 
cornices.  Felix  helped  himself  to  a  drink  of  whiskey. 

At  his  occupation  of  the  studio  he  had  found  on  a 
buffet  an  array  of  dusty  glasses  and  dry  bottles.  He 
had  promptly  bought  a  stock  of  cigars,  liquors,  and 
seltzer  water  for  the  regalement  of  visitors.  These 
decorations,  he  thought,  added  to  the  room  a  cosey 
and  hospitable  touch.  Moreover,  he  found  the  buffet 
a  convenience.  He  used  to  "take  something"  in  the 
evening  if  he  was  in  low  spirits,  or  before  going  to 
bed,  or  in  the  morning,  if  he  felt  lethargic.  After 
some  trouble  he  had,  like  most  of  his  young 
friends,  at  last  got  so  that  he  could  finish  a  drink 
of  whiskey  without  a  grimace. 

When  his  book  wearied  him  he  would  walk  round 
the  room,  hands  in  pockets,  always  stopping  before 
a  little,  rickety  bookcase  to  stare  with  an  air  of  dis- 
satisfaction at  the  volumes  on  the  shelves.  He  had 
read  them  all,  worse  luck!  But  one  night  he  found, 
behind  the  rest,  another  novel,  covered  with  dust. 
It  was  a  historical  romance  of  the  middle  ages  that 


EILEEN  75 

he  had  never  read.  What  a  relief!  He  bore  the 
novel  quickly  to  his  writing-table,  sent  his  text-books 
whirling  out  of  the  way,  and  read  of  knights,  monks, 
damsels,  and  troubadours  till  two  o'clock  in  the 
morning.  It  was  a  good  story — but  how  much  better 
he  could  have  done  it!  Well,  then,  why  not  better 
it  ?  Remembering  Oliver  Corquill's  admonitions,  he 
snapped  his  fingers  scornfully.  The  next  night  he 
prepared  excitedly  to  write  a  short  story  dealing  with 
the  middle  ages. 

He  could  see,  as  if  they  stood  before  him,  those  old 
fellows  in  their  scalloped  coats  and  armor,  those 
ladies  with  head-dresses,  towering  like  steeples,  the 
quaint,  mediaeval  faces,  the  eccentric  actions  of  a 
people  long  since  done  with.  Certainly,  no  one  had 
ever  perceived  such  things  so  clearly!  Sure  of  him- 
self, he  knew  how  he  would  make  every  point  effec- 
tive. The  phrases  took  place  in  his  brain  as  the 
crystals  of  a  kaleidoscope  slide  swiftly  into  symmetri- 
cal designs.  He  was  astonished  at  his  capability. 
He  believed  himself  to  be  inspired. 

As  he  wrote,  his  delight  increased,  his  pride  rose. 
He  threw  down  the  pen,  sprang  up,  and  strode  about, 
smiling,  happy,  confident.  He  talked  to  the  dog, 
who,  alert  on  the  divan,  watched  him  with  cocked 
ears  and  open  jaws.  "Hey,  Pat,  we've  begun! 
We're  on  the  way!  We're  going  to  be  famous!  Sa- 
lute, you  little  devil;  salute  the  illustrious  author!" 
Pat,  springing  to  the  floor,  bounded  round  his  master 
with  sharp  yelps  of  joy.  Felix  took  a  drink,  lighted 
a  cigarette,  and  again  attacked  his  work. 


76  PREDESTINED 

He  sent  the  manuscript  to  an  important  monthly 
magazine.  One  morning,  standing  by  the  hall  door 
in  his  pajamas,  he  tore  open  an  envelope;  a  check 
fell  out ;  it  was  for  two  hundred  dollars.  The  story 
had  been  accepted. 

Despite  his  previous  confidence,  for  a  moment  he 
was  stupefied.  Then  he  tingled  with  exultation. 
Fame  lay  before  him!  That  morning,  in  the  street, 
passers-by  turned  to  look  again  at  his  radiant  face. 

The  story  was  published  with  handsome  illustra- 
tions. Nina  read  it  five  times.  Mr.  Wickit,  tele- 
phoning to  Felix,  expressed  astonishment  and  con- 
gratulated him  effusively.  Gregory  Tamborlayne, 
putting  both  hands  on  Felix's  shoulders,  said,  with  a 
smile  that  made  him  good-looking: 

"Old  boy,  you  don't  know  how  glad  I  am!" 

Of  all  Felix's  friends,  Tamborlayne  had  become 
the  closest.  He  took  an  intense  interest  in  Felix's 
progress,  talked  flatteringly  of  him  everywhere,  pre- 
dicted for  him  a  fine  future,  told  people  that  "there 
was  a  young  man  who  was  going  to  write  the  great 
American  novel."  They  were  seen  everywhere  to- 
gether, arm  in  arm,  swinging  their  canes,  smiling, 
chatting  with  animation.  They  confided  to  each 
other  their  affairs,  and  Felix  became,  for  the  Tam- 
borlaynes,  a  "friend  of  the  family." 

At  the  close  of  winter  afternoons,  when  the  streets 
grew  gloomy  and  lights,  surrounded  by  foggy  nim- 
buses, made  deep  reflections  on  the  wet  pavements, 
Felix  liked  to  enter  the  Tamborlaynes'  house,  warm, 
fragrant  with  flowers,  illumined  by  the  glow  of  lamps 


EILEEN  77 

in  shades  of  favrile  glass.  In  the  library,  lined  with 
Japanese  leather,  full  of  glistening  books  and  com- 
fortable furniture,  he  sat,  in  the  attitude  of  a  man  en- 
tirely at  ease,  beside  the  tea-table  with  Eileen  Tam- 
borlayne,  while  waiting  for  her  husband  to  come 
home. 

He  took  pleasure  in  talking  to  her  about  himself 
— "she  was  so  sympathetic."  She  said  little;  but 
sitting  in  a  deep  chair,  with  a  cigarette  between  her 
slender  fingers,  she  looked  at  him  intently,  all  the 
while  he  was  speaking,  with  the  serious  gaze  of  a 
person  who  is  listening  to  something  of  importance. 
When  he  chose  to  be  humorous,  immediately  her 
quiet,  appreciative  smile  appeared  to  flatter  him. 
When,  after  refreshing  himself  with  the  Scotch  and 
soda  that  he  preferred  to  tea,  he  unveiled  a  little  the 
longings  of  his  heart,  so  difficult  to  describe  in  speech, 
in  some  way  she  made  him  feel  just  by  the  expression 
of  her  face  that  she  understood  him  perfectly.  How 
rare — that  ability  for  exact  comprehension!  He  told 
himself  that  she  was  an  unusually  intelligent  woman. 

When  he  had  become  thoroughly  familiar  with 
her  appearance  it  no  longer  occurred  to  him  that 
she  was  "too  slender"  and  "too  pale,"  that  her 
fingers  were  too  long,  that  her  feet,  in  thin  house 
slippers  were  so  narrow  as  to  have  seemed  to  him 
at  first  almost  abnormal. 

Sometimes,  in  answer  to  his  confidences,  she  made 
little  confessions  of  her  own.  She,  too,  had  found 
this  or  that  to  be  the  case;  and  with  an  air  almost 
meek,  as  if  she  considered  her  affairs  of  small  in- 


78  PREDESTINED 

terest,  she  would  cite  as  an  example  some  past  ex- 
perience of  hers.  In  that  way  he  got  to  know  some- 
thing of  her  life. 

She  had  lived  in  Washington  until  her  marriage; 
Gregory  had  met  her  there.  She  spoke  of  her  former 
home  in  the  capital;  it  was  on  such  and  such  a  street. 
Her  father  had  been  a  well-known  lawyer — had 
Felix  ever  heard  of  him?  Felix  thought  he  had. 
She  had  gone  to  school  at  a  certain  convent.  When 
only  seventeen,  she  had  nearly  married  a  young  man 
who  had  subsequently  turned  out  badly.  And  so  on. 
Felix  listened  attentively  to  these  disclosures;  but 
afterward,  while  reflecting  on  them,  he  discovered 
invariably,  with  vague  surprise,  that  he  knew  no 
more  of  her  real  self  than  he  had  known  before. 
One  afternoon,  however,  she  admitted  with  a  sigh: 

"But,  you  see,  I'm  twenty-nine  years  old!" 

Felix  would  not  have  suspected  it.  He  was  then 
twenty-six.  From  that  moment  she  obtained,  by 
reason  of  her  superior  age,  a  subtile  prestige. 

In  the  midst  of  their  conversations  Gregory  would 
come  in  rubbing  his  cold  hands,  beaming. 

"Well,  here  we  are  again!  What's  the  good  wprd 
to-day,  Felix?" 

And,  bending  over  his  wife,  he  would  give  her  a 
long  kiss.  Then,  throwing  himself  into  a  big  chair, 
with  a  tender  look  at  her  he  would  say: 

"How  good  this  is!  D'you  know,  Felix,  I  rather 
like  this  old  girl." 

In  fact,  he  was  still  madly  infatuated  with  her.  He 
could  not  keep  away  from  her;  he  patted  her  hand, 


EILEEN  79 

or  put  his  arm  round  her,  or  drew  her  into  a  corner 
to  kiss  her.  When  he  contemplated  her  his  eyes 
brightened,  his  serious,  plain  face  wore  a  look  of 
devotion.  She  received  his  caresses  gracefully,  with 
a  pretty  humility,  keeping  her  eyes  cast  down  for  a 
moment  after  he  had  embraced  her. 

While  Felix  was  generously  permitted  to  be  the 
witness  of  these  tender  passages,  Gregory  was  less 
demonstrative  when  other  guests  were  present. 

Occasionally  Felix  met  at  the  Tamborlaynes' 
house  a  thin,  stoop-shouldered  young  man,  with  a 
weak,  " clever"  face,  eyes  that  were  pale  and  watery, 
lank,  black  hair  precisely  brushed,  finger  nails  cut  to 
a  point,  and  dainty  manners.  This  young  man's 
name  was  Mortimer  Fray.  In  lieu  of  any  serious 
occupation,  he  was  an  amateur  of  all  the  arts — a 
dilettante.  Smoking  one  cigarette  after  the  -other, 
wearing  all  the  while  that  expression  which  is  called 
"soulful,"  he  talked  volubly,  in  an  excessively  re- 
fined voice,  of  painting,  sculpture,  literature,  music, 
and  the  drama.  His  conversation  was  ornamented 
with  such  terms  as  "atmosphere,"  "nuance,"  "chi- 
aroscuro," "tonal  quality,"  "the  unities,"  "French 
feeling."  Gregory  thought  him  "an  interesting  chap, 
though  a  bit  effeminate." 

He  had  been  introduced  to  the  Tamborlaynes 
at  an  exhibition  of  paintings.  In  a  moment's  con- 
versation he  had  recommended  to  Eileen  Tambor- 
layne  a  new  book.  A  few  days  later  he  had  tele- 
phoned to  ask  if  he  might  call  and  learn  her  opinion 
of  the  author.  He  brought  with  him  a  portfolio  of 


8q  PREDESTINED 

etchings,  which  Mrs.  Tamborlayne  admired.  Fray 
thereupon  immediately  bestowed  them  on  her.  He 
remarked  the  music  on  the  piano.  Mrs.  Tambor- 
layne was  the  musician  ?  How  pleasant !  For  his  part 
he  played  the  violin  a  little.  One  afternoon  he  ap- 
peared with  the  instrument — perhaps  they  might 
run  over  a  piece  or  two  ?  He  forgot  to  take  his  violin 
away  with  him — it  had  been  covered  with  sheet 
music — and  he  had  to  return  for  it  next  day.  After 
that  there  was  no  telling  when  he  was  going  to  drop  in. 

One  day  he  appeared  at  the  Tamborlaynes'  house, 
bursting  with  pride.  He  had  just  made  the  acquaint- 
ance of  Paul  Pavin,  a  famous  French  portrait-painter, 
who  was  then  in  New  York  executing  some  commis- 
sions. Fray  had  managed  to  lunch  with  this 
•personage,  had  walked  up  Fifth  Avenue  with  him, 
discussing  art  at  every  step,  and  on  arriving  at  the 
Velasquez  Building,  in  which  Pavin  occupied  a 
studio,  had  received  an  invitation  to  -call  "some 
day."  Beside  himself  with  satisfaction,  he  began 
practising  on  Eileen  Tamborlayne  and  Felix  with  a 
host  of  artistic  aphorisms,  each  beginning  with: 

"Paul  Pavin  said  to  me." 

When  he  had  left  the  house  Eileen  Tamborlayne 
looked  vexed.  Staring  at  Felix  absent-mindedly,  she 
exclaimed : 

"I  wonder  if  Pavin  would  let  him  see " 

"See  what?"  asked  Felix,  in  surprise. 

Finally,  with  a  smile,  she  said: 

"I'll  tell  you  something,  if  you'll  promise  to  keep 
k  to  yourself."  And  she  confessed  that  she  was 


EILEEN  8l 

secretly  having  her  portrait  painted  by  this  Pavin, 
as  a  surprise  for  Gregory. 

Felix  was  amazed  and  delighted.  How  pleased 
Gregory  would  be ! 

"Tell  me  about  it,"  he  besought  her,  eager  to  take 
part  in  this  amiable  deception.  How  had  she  come 
to  think  of  it  ?  How  had  she  gone  about  it  ? 

It  was  very  simple.  During  the  summer  she  had 
met  Pavin  in  Paris.  He  had  been  enthusiastic;  he 
had  said  at  once  that  she  was  a  woman  of  whom  he 
could  paint  a  fine  portrait.  It  was  evident  that  this 
suggestion,  implanted  in  her  mind,  had  grown  to  a 
strong  desire;  in  her  thoughts  she  had  undoubtedly 
perceived  her  likeness,  done  by  this  celebrated  artist, 
hanging  in  an  art  gallery  on  exhibition,  surrounded 
by  admiring  critics,  talked  of  everywhere.  On 
Pavin's  arrival  in  New  York  at  once  she  had  given 
him  his  commission.  She  had  a  sitting  nearly  every 
afternoon.  The  portrait  was  beginning  to  take  its 
final  shape. 

"If  only  I  could  see  it!"  ejaculated  Felix. 

Well,  why  not,  since  he  was  in  the  secret  now? 
It  was  arranged  that  he  should  call  for  her  the  next 
afternoon  at  Pavin's  studio,  to  meet  the  artist  and 
look  at  the  picture. 

When  he  presented  himself  the  spacious  studio 
was  already  dusky;  at  the  far  end  of  it  a  "north 
light "  formed  a  great  square,  luminously  gray,  against 
which  some  heavy  furniture  appeared  in  silhouette 
with  blurred  outlines.  But  just  as  Felix  entered 
lights  burst  forth. 


82  PREDESTINED 

The  bare,  high  walls  were  covered  with  faded 
burlap  that  had  once  been  gilded.  Worn  Turkish 
rugs  lay  underfoot.  There  were  some  divans,  up- 
holstered with  gray  cloth,  and  a  dusty  grand-piano 
in  one  corner.  Here  and  there  were  heavy  chairs  of 
carved  wood.  An  easel,  bearing  a  large  canvas,  was 
turned  to  the  wall.  Other  canvases  were  piled  up 
between  two  doors,  at  which  hung  curtains  of  gray 
velveteen.  There  were  no  ornaments;  everything 
was  practical ;  this  studio  was  a  workshop. 

.Felix  saw  Eileen  standing  by  the  "north  light," 
wearing  her  hat  and  fur  coat,  pulling  on  her  long 
gloves.  A  tall,  broad-shouldered  man  advanced  with 
out-stretched  hand. 

The  Frenchman  was  about  fifty  years  old,  still 
blond,  ruddy,  with  a  great  yellow  beard  trimmed 
square  across  the  bottom.  His  eyes  were  shrewd 
and  humorous.  His  hands  were  the  heavy,  working 
hands  inherited  from  peasant  ancestors;  for  he  was 
not  a  Parisian  born,  but  a  native  of  the  farm  country 
of  Touraine.  In  his  youth,  urged  by  those  whisper- 
ing voices  which  call  some  souls  from  the  dullest, 
most  unpromising  surroundings  into  electric  regions 
where  fame  may  be  met,  he  had  set  out  for  Paris. 
There  he  had  lived  in  a  garret,  struggling,  starving, 
watching  a  poor  sweetheart  die  for  lack  of  proper 
care,  contemplating  suicide,  cursing  the  city  that  was 
cruel  to  him.  Finally,  in  a  frenzy  of  determination, 
he  had  plunged  through  all  obstacles — he  had  got 
fame  by  the  throat.  Nowadays  he  was  wealthy, 
renowned,  and  welcomed  everywhere — this  son  of  a 


EILEEN  83 

Touraine  farmer  who,  as  a  boy,  had  tramped  cow 
pastures  in  wooden  shoes  and,  as  a  student,  had  de- 
voured stale  bread  on  benches  in  the  public  parks. 

Felix  took  the  artist's  hand  respectfully.  He  was 
charmed  at  once  by  the  Frenchman's  cordiality,  his 
precise  English,  his  graceful  manners  learned  through 
long  contact  with  fashionable  people,  his  way  of 
implying  constantly:  "You  and  I,  as  men  of  the 
world,  can  understand."  Felix's  satisfaction  knew 
no  bounds  till  they  went  to  inspect  the  portrait. 

The  portrait  was  life-sized.  Eileen  Tamborlayne 
was  pictured  standing  in  a  black  ball  dress  covered 
with  black  spangles  and  with  jet.  Enveloped  in 
shadows,  with  her  back  half  turned,  she  was  looking 
over  her  shoulder  at  the  observer,  while  parting  with 
one  hand  some  indistinct  curtains  in  the  background. 
Her  slimness  and  pallor  seemed  to  have  been  exag- 
gerated by  the  artist;  her  lithe  grace  was  nearly 
caricatured.  The  face,  which  still  appeared  in  flat, 
unfinished  tones,  wore  a  look  which  Felix  thought 
unnatural.  He  considered  the  portrait  exceedingly 
bizarre.  He  was  sure  that  Gregory  would  not  like  it. 

But,  reflecting  that  he  might  betray  ignorance  by 
any  adverse  criticism,  he  said  nothing,  when  he  and 
she  left  the  studio,  except  that  the  picture  was  "very 
odd — quite  striking."  With  a  pleased  expression, 
she  agreed  with  him. 

The  thought  of  sharing  the  secret  of  the  portrait 
fascinated  Felix.  Whenever  he  passed  the  Velasquez 
Building  he  looked  up  at  the  windows  intelligently. 
One  afternoon,  unable  to  withstand  his  curiosity,  he 


84  PREDESTINED 

returned  to  Pavin's  studio.  She  was  there,  and  had 
just  finished  her  pose.  While  smoking  and  talking 
with  the  artist,  he  heard  her,  behind  the  gray  cur- 
tains, in  another  room,  changing  her  dress.  Silk 
rustled;  silver  clicked  against  silver;  presently  she 
emerged  ready  for  the  street,  with  a  tranquil,  demure 
air  and  a  business-like  word  to  Pavin  regarding  her 
next  visit.  Felix  could  not  help  finding  in  the  whole 
affair  something  adventurous  and  daring.  He  won- 
dered whether  Gregory,  if  he  had  known,  would  have 
appreciated  all  this  exertion  for  his  sake. 

Half  assured  of  a  welcome  by  the  Frenchman's 
cordiality,  Felix  began  timidly  to  visit  Pavin.  The 
artist  was  pleased;  he  seemed  to  have  taken  a  fancy 
to  the  boy.  He  said : 

"When  the  light  holds  good,  I  work;  the  door  is 
locked.  When  the  light  goes,  I  have  an  hour  to  lie 
about  and  smoke.  Come  then.  I  like  you,  Mon- 
sieur Felix.  You  have  something  that  attracts  me. 
You  refresh  me.  I  remember  the  time  when  I,  too, 
was  young.  I  have  a  souvenir.  Of  myself?  Of 
some  one  else?  Who  knows?  But  I  seem  to  see 
Paris  thirty  years  ago,  the  Paris  that  is  gone,  that 
we  oldish  fellows  sigh  for.  Come  always  at  dusk. 
I  shall  enjoy  it." 

Felix  was  overwhelmed  with  pleasure  at  this 
condescension.  His  manner  was  more  dignified  for 
days;  he  could  call  himself  the  friend  of  a  great 
artist ! 

Sitting  together  in  the  twilight,  they  talked,  as  if 
almost  of  an  age,  of  Paris,  of  beautiful  things  every- 


EILEEN  8$ 

where,  of  life,  and  finally,  as  was  inevitable,  of  women. 
Of  women  Paul  Pavin  had  his  own  ideas. 

"They  have  their  place,  a  charming  place — yes; 
but  it  is  not  in  art.  They  are  a  distraction.  And 
what  is  a  distraction  ?  A  detriment — not  so  ?  Sup- 
pose I  am  alone  in  life  ?  I  work  with  all  my  brains 
and  energies.  Suppose  a  woman  enters  and  be- 
comes indispensable  ?  All  is  confusion.  When  there 
is  a  woman,  of  what  are  you  thinking  ?  Your  work  ? 
Not  possible.  Your  work  is  her  rival,  her  enemy. 
So,  she  is  my  enemy.  When  my  work  is  done,  yes, 
then  perhaps  I  meet  the  enemy;  but  I  recognize  her 
for  what  she  is ;  I  am  on  guard ;  she  makes  no  wound ; 
she  does  not  occupy  my  castle." 

"But,"  Felix  ventured,  thinking  of  Nina,  "I  have 
always  thought  that  the  inspiration  of  one  good  wom- 
an, the  companionship  of  a  lifetime " 

"One  for  a  lifetime?  Believe  me,  mon  ami,  as 
I  have  found  it,  human  beings  are  not  like  that!" 

Felix  was  impressed.  But  sometimes,  when  there 
was  a  light  knock  on  the  door,  he  could  not  help 
exclaiming,  with  a  laugh: 

"The  enemy!" 

For  women  came  frequently,  late  in  the  afternoon, 
to  Pavin's  studio. 

They  were  all  attractive  and  well  dressed,  their 
hats  laden  with  trailing  feathers,  soft  furs  wrapped 
round  their  necks,  the  fingers  of  their  tight  gloves 
swollen  with  rings.  They  brought  in  with  them 
faint  odors  of  perfume,  dropped  their  gold  purses 
anywhere,  and  seated  themselves  in  the  carved  chairs 


86  PREDESTINED 

with  exaggerated  primness.  They  all  seemed  to 
regard  Pavin  with  respect,  and  to  consider  it  a  privi- 
lege that  they  were  permitted  to  visit  him. 

Of  these  casual  visitors, .  Felix  remembered  two 
particularly.  One,  called  Miss  Sinjon,  was  a  slight, 
red-haired  girl,  with  a  square  chin,  rather  prominent 
cheek-bones,  and  a  translucent  skin.  The  other, 
named  Miss  Llanelly,  was  tall,  red-cheeked,  with  a 
vivid  appearance  of  healthiness.  These  two  always 
came  together.  Felix  gathered  from  their  conversa- 
tion that  they  were,  from  time  to  time,  "on  the 
stage."  He  had  never  heard  of  them  before;  but 
their  faces  seemed  familiar  to  him. 

Pavin  treated  all  these  fair  guests  with  the  good- 
natured  tolerance  of  an  old  bachelor  on  whom  a  lot 
of  spoiled  children  are  imposing.  But  there  was  one 
visitor — who,  as  it  happened,  never  met  the  rest — 
for  whom  there  was  invariably  a  hearty  greeting,  a 
chair  proffered  instantly,  a  bustling  hunt  for  the 
coffee-pot.  This  visitor  was  Mme.  Regne  Lodbrok, 
a  noted  dramatic  soprano,  engaged  for  the  winter 
season  at  the  Metropolitan  Opera  House. 

She  was  a  beautiful  Scandinavian,  about  forty-five 
years  old,  with  pale-yellow  hair  and  a  majestic  figure. 
Gay,  abrupt,  frank,  she  had  the  good  spirits  and  the 
direct  manners  of  a  big  boy.  When  she  laughed,  she 
threw  back  her  head  and  opened  her  large  mouth, 
disclosing  all  her  fine  teeth.  As  Felix  said  to  him- 
self, she  "filled  a  chair  comfortably."  Sitting  beside 
the  lamp,  drinking  cup  after  cup  of  coffee,  she  talked 
to  Pavin  as  one  man  talks  to  another.  They  had 


EILEEN  87 

known  each  other  for  years  in  Europe ;  each  respected 
the  other;  they  were  good  friends. 

She  liked  Felix  at  once.  Whenever,  on  entering, 
she  saw  him  there,  she  called  out  to  him,  in  a  jolly 
voice :  "  Hello ! "  Sometimes,  instead  of  shaking  hands 
with  him,  she  pinched  his  cheek.  Once  she  called 
him  "  liebchen  " — then  laughed  heartily  at  his  embar- 
rassment. She  had  a  wholesome,  motherly  way  of 
smiling  at  him,  which  made  him  feel  very  young. 
He  admired  her,  and  was  proud  of  knowing  her. 
This  contact  with  artistic  celebrities  made  him  feel 
important. 

One  afternoon  Mme.  Lodbrok  was  sitting  at  the 
piano  with  her  fur  hat  on  and  her  gloves  rolled  over 
her  wrists.  She  was  about  to  hurry  off  to  an  early 
dinner;  that  night  she  was  going  to  sing  Venus  in 
"Tannhauser."  As  her  strong  fingers  touched  the 
piano  keys  at  random,  she  gazed  round  the  studio. 
Her  eyes  fell  on  the  easel. 

"Tell  me,  Pavin,  that  portrait  of  the  pale  lady; 
when  will  it  be  finished?" 

Pavin  rolled  the  easel  out  from  the  wall. 

"It  was  finished  yesterday." 

They  all  stared  at  the  picture — Pavin  thoughtfully, 
|  Mme.  Lodbrok  intently,  Felix  with  secret  disappoint- 
ment. 

He  had  been  right,  he  thought:  it  was  nearly  odd 
enough  to  suggest  caricature.  Yet  the  pose  was  ex- 
ceedingly graceful ;  the  very  attenuation  of  the  figure 
did  no  more  than  emphasize  Eileen  Tamborlayne's 
peculiar,  lithe  elegance;  and  the  general  effect,  as  the 


88  PREDESTINED 

white  skin  and  shimmering  jet  showed  through  swim- 
ming shadows,  was  of  richness  and  distinction.  Af- 
ter all,  it  was  the  face  with  which  Felix  found  himself 
dissatisfied;  for  he  seemed  to  see  there  her  habit- 
ual expression  of  placidity  and  meekness  subtly 
caricatured. 

Mme.  Lodbrok  exclaimed  emphatically : 
"It  is  wonderful!  How  did  you  ever  catch  it?" 
And,  after  a  pause: 

"What  didshesay,  this  lady,  when  it  was  finished  ?" 

"Well,"  answered  Pavin,  with  a  smile,  "she  said 

yes,  that  it  was  beautiful,  but  that  she  was  afraid  her 

husband,  who  was  not  artistic,  would  tell  her:  'I  do 

not  know  this  woman.' ' 

Mme.  Lodbrok,  while  staring  at  the  portrait,  was 
playing  softly,  on  the  treble  keys,  the  Venusberg 
music.  She  opened  her  mouth,  closed  it — then,  with 
a  shrug,  remarked : 

"So?    Well,  then,  that  much  the  worse  for  him!" 
And  in  the  ensuing  silence  slowly  striking  three 
chords,  she  sang  in  a  rich,  vibrant  voice,  which  filled 
the  room,  the  first  utterance  of  Wagner's  Venus: 

" Gdiebter,  sag',  wo weilt dein Sinn"  .  . 


CHAPTER  V 

ONE  afternoon,  at  dusk,  Felix  met  Eileen  Tambor- 
layne  on  Fifth  Avenue.  She  had  been  shopping;  she 
was  tired  and  thirsty;  and  she  wanted  a  cup  of  tea. 
They  entered  a  hotel  near  by,  and  in  a  tea-room  full 
of  potted  plants,  where  one  was  likely  to  meet  any- 
body, sat  down  at  a  table. 

It  was  the  first  time  since  his  engagement  that 
Felix  had  appeared  in  a  public  place  with  any  woman 
except  Nina.  Ill  at  ease,  he  kept  looking  at  the  door- 
way, where  new-comers  were  continually  appearing. 
He  expected  every  moment  to  see  Nina  standing  there 
and  staring  at  him. 

He  was  exasperated  at  the  leisurely  manner  in 
which  Eileen  Tamborlayne  sipped  her  tea  and  nibbled 
cakes.  When  she  had  finished,  he  thought  she  would 
never  get  her  gloves  buttoned  and  her  veil  arranged. 
She  mislaid  her  purse ;  they  looked  for  it  everywhere ; 
the  waiter  moved  several  fern  pots  and  crawled  under 
the  table  on  his  hands  and  knees.  At  last  she  found 
the  purse  in  her  muff.  Felix  rose  quickly,  with  a 
sensation  of  intense  relief.  But  where  was  her  pack- 
age ;  she  was  sure  she  had  brought  in  a  little  package. 
Felix  was  sure  she  had  not.  The  waiter  agreed  with 

him.     Finally,  she  started  toward  the  door. 

89 


90  PREDESTINED 

In  the  doorway  Felix  came  face  to  face  with  Miss 
Llanelly,  the  tall,  red-cheeked  girl  he  had  met  in 
Pavin's  studio.  As  soon  as  Eileen  Tamborlayne  was 
past  her,  Miss  Llanelly  smiled  and  nodded. 

This,  also,  irritated  Felix.  He  thought:  "If  Nina 
were  with  me,  she  would  do  just  the  same!"  And 
suddenly  he  was  afraid  of  her,  and  of  all  the  other 
women  he  had  met  and  chatted  with  in  Pavin's 
studio — and  not  only  of  them,  but  of  Eileen  Tam- 
borlayne as  well,  whom,  through  some  instinctive 
reticence  which  he  could  not  explain,  he  had  never 
spoken  of  to  Nina.  His  eyes  were  opened;  he  had 
been  treading  on  dangerous  ground;  he  had  been 
risking  a  great  deal  for  nothing.  What  incompre- 
hensible rashness  had  he  not  been  guilty  of! 

A  sudden  apprehension  is  an  excellent  incentive  to 
good  resolutions  of  a  sweeping  character.  He  re- 
solved not  to  go  back  to  the  Tamborlaynes'  house  or 
to  Pavin's  studio;  he  determined  to  avoid  Eileen 
Tamborlayne  thereafter;  and  as  for  the  Miss  Lla- 
nellys,  whenever  they  got  in  his  way  he  would  look 
straight  through  them !  He  had  obtained  all  at  once, 
through  trepidation,  some  high  ideas  of  the  obliga- 
tions of  an  engaged  young  man. 

When  he  set  out  that  evening  for  the  Ferrol  house, 
he  had  a  refreshing  sensation  of  honesty,  as  if,  at  his 
resolution,  all  his  past  faults  had  been  obliterated. 
When,  on  entering  the  old-fashioned  drawing-room, 
he  saw  Nina  waiting  for  him,  he  was  touched  with 
remorse  at  the  sight  of  her  clear,  trustful  eyes,  and 
he  embraced  her  with  a  tenderness  so  unusual  that 


EILEEN  91 

she  was  surprised.  His  quiet  evening  with  her  de- 
lighted him.  He  had  no  thoughts  but  sincere  and 
simple  ones — no  wish  but  to  repay  her  for  her  con- 
stant faith  in  him.  Then,  rediscovering  her  beauty, 
he  recovered  a  good  deal  of  his  old  ardor.  As  he 
was  leaving  her,  she  put  her  arms  round  his  neck, 
gazed  up  at  him  with  shining  eyes,  and  whispered: 
"What  a  dear  boy  you  are  to-night!" 
The  next  day  Felix  began  to  devote  all  his  leisure 
hours  to  Nina.  They  rode  in  the  park;  they  took 
long  walks,  with  Felix's  puppy  trotting  at  their  heels; 
they  strolled  through  streets  full  of  furniture  shops, 
looking  into  the  show  windows  at  draperies  of  crimson 
damask  and  brocade,  at  carved  Italian  chests,  at  tall 
chairs  fashioned  like  the  thrones  of  cardinals,  at 
tables  the  heavy  legs  of  which  were  carved  with  post- 
uring cupids,  at  four-post  bedsteads,  with  wood- 
work fluted  and  gilded  in  an  antique  style,  large 
enough  to  conceal  a  family  behind  their  curtains. 
They  planned  the  decoration  of  a  dwelling  of  their 
own.  Alert,  with  ruddy  cheeks,  they  returned  to  the 
Ferrol  house  for  dinner.  Old  Joseph,  opening  the 
door  for  them,  was  wreathed  in  smiles. 

Felix  now  found  a  novel  pleasure  in  perfecting  his 
behavior.  He  seemed  to  have  experienced  an  inten- 
sification of  conscience;  and,  somewhat  like  a  con- 
vert to  religion  who,  in  his  burst  of  zeal,  will  be  con- 
tent with  nothing  less  than  asceticism,  Felix,  day  by 
day  the  more  enamoured  of  his  pose  of  rectitude,  was 
always  hunting  for  fine  resolutions  to  make.  He  even 
drank  nothing,  for  a  while,  but  a  bottle  of  light  beer 


92  PREDESTINED 

with  his  luncheon ;  for  a  week  he  kept  down  his  allow- 
ance of  tobacco  to  "three  smokes  a  day."  In  such 
mortifications  he  discovered  a  subtle  voluptuousness : 
when  his  appetites  presented  themselves  to  him  he 
enjoyed  anticipation.  As  he  reflected  that  there  was 
nothing  in  his  conduct  with  which  anybody  could  find 
fault,  feelings  of  calmness  and  superiority  pervaded 
him.  While  walking  through  the  streets  he  gazed 
on  passers-by  with  the  gentle  tolerance  of  an  exem- 
plary character. 

He  worked  hard.  At  the  newspaper  office  his 
salary  had  been  raised  to  twenty-five  dollars  a  week; 
at  home  he  had  begun  to  write  a  novel. 
•  After  perusing  several  books  of  Tolstoy's,  he  had 
decided  to  write  a  Russian  story  in  the  "realistic 
style."  Having  been  in  Russia,  he  was  sure  of  his 
ability  to  concoct  the  "atmosphere."  He  had  visions 
of  tall,  bearded  gentlemen  with  close-clipped  hair,  in 
uniform,  smoking  cigarettes ;  of  pale  ladies  with  pen- 
dent ear-rings,  sitting  in  overheated  rooms ;  of  frowsy 
peasants  in  boots  and  quilted  coats;  of  mobs,  cos- 
sacks,  three-horse  troikas  driven  breakneck  through 
snow,  lonely  steppes  all  white  in  moonlight — a  string 
of  political  prisoners  tramping  in  the  middle  distance. 
He  had  begun  to  write  with  energy,  inscribing  at  the 
top  of  the  first  page,  with  a  flourish,  "Chapter  I," 
and  immediately  introducing  his  hero  with  the  words : 

"TchernaiefT  drew  rein  and  listened.  He  thought 
he  had  heard,  coming  across  the  snow-covered 
steppes,  a  faint  cry  of  distress." 

Unfortunately,  while  composing  this  tale  he  read, 


EILEEN  93 

by  way  of  recreation,  some  novels  of  Alexandre 
Dumas.  When  he  had  scribbled  thirty  thousand 
words  Felix  discovered,  on  glancing  over  a  "  Critical 
Study  of  French  Authors,"  that  he  had  been  writing, 
not  in  the  realistic  style,  but  in  the  romantic !  Imme- 
diately he  tore  up  his  work  and  began  again.  But 
the  realistic  style  was  elusive,  as  he  was  then  perusing, 
for  amusement,  a  story  of  Nero  by  Sienkiewicz.  The 
Russian  steppes  began  to  seem  to  Felix  artificial,  like 
scenery  in  a  theatre ;  and  whenever  he  contemplated 
his  Slavonic  hero,  he  had  difficulty  in  not  picturing 
him  in  a  toga  mrilis.  Perhaps,  after  all,  he  would 
have  done  better  with  a  tale  of  Rome!  And  he 
remembered  his  thrills  of  imagination  in  the  Forum, 
the  Roman  museums,  and  Pompeii.  He  saw  the 
ancient  streets,  narrow,  precipitous,  dirty,  and,  mov- 
ing through  them,  the  triumph  of  some  returning 
general — the  brown  crowd  leaning  out  from  roofs 
and  windows,  the  soldiers  marching  in  brass  and 
leather,  the  golden  eagles,  the  rising  incense  smoke, 
the  dropping  flowers,  and,  against  a  background  of 
innumerable  helmets,  all  glittering,  as  if  in  one  of 
those  radiant  mists  which  enveloped — so  one  reads 
— the  presences  of  pagan  deities,  the  conqueror  in  his 
chariot,  robed,  crowned  with  laurel,  his  face  covered 
with  vermilion,  splendid  and  terrible,  like  a  god 
showing  himself  to  men.  The  harsh  trumpet  blasts, 
the  rumbling  "Alala!"  of  the  Roman  legionaries, 
filled  Felix's  ears. 

Late  one  afternoon,  while  sitting  at  his  writing- 
table,  staring  disconsolately  at  the  manuscript  in 


94  PREDESTINED 

which  he  had  lost  interest,  he  heard  a  murmur  of 
voices  in  the  hall,  a  rustle  of  skirts,  then  a  knock 
on  the  door.  The  puppy  rushed  forward,  barking 
frantically.  It  was  Eileen  Tamborlayne  with  two 
woman  friends  whom  Felix  did  not  know. 

They  had  been  passing  through  Thirty-second 
Street;  Eileen  Tamborlayne  had  remembered  his 
address,  and,  seeing  the  studio  windows  illuminated, 
she  had  brought  the  others  upstairs  "for  a  lark." 
Smiling  as  if  she  had  last  seen  Felix  the  day  before, 
she  explained: 

"There  were  so  many  of  us,  we  thought  our  visit 
could  hardly  be  improper." 

In  fact,  the  three  women  seemed  to  fill  the  studio. 
One  sat  on  the  divan,  another  on  the  model  throne; 
Eileen  took  his  chair  before  the  writing-table.  Their 
elaborate  hats  and  dresses,  their  glossy  furs  and 
shining  purses,  enriched  the  room.  When  they  all 
jumped  up  together  to  examine  some  object,  their 
skirts  swished  about  their  slim  figures,  their  perfumes 
sweetened  the  air,  the  feathers  on  their  hats  com- 
mingled; and  Felix,  despite  his  vexation,  could  not 
help  feeling  a  certain  complacency.  He  noticed  that 
neither  of  Eileen's  companions  was  as  attractive  as 
she. 

They  thought  the  place  "delightful — so  Bohe- 
mian!" They  petted  the  dog,  laughed  at  the  man- 
nikin,  stared  at  the  skylight,  the  buffet,  the  bedroom 
door.  They  wanted  to  know  if  they  were  intrud- 
ing; they  implored  Felix  to  be  frank;  was  he  ex- 
pecting any  one  ?  He  was  not  expecting  any  one. 


EILEEN  95 

He  brought  out  the  teapot  and  telephoned  for  some 
cakes. 

As  they  were  leaving,  Eileen  said  to  Felix,  gently: 

"We  miss  you  uptown  at  tea-time  nowadays." 

"I'm  working  very  hard." 

"So  Gregory  tells  me.  But  you  need  some  recrea- 
tion. You'd  better  drop  in  now  and  then  and  save 
me  from  Mortimer." 

"Fray,  you  mean?    He's  there  often?" 

She  made  a  grimace  of  weariness. 

"And  the  portrait?" 

"It  came  home  last  night — Gregory's  birthday." 

"And  Monsieur  Pavin?" 

"He  was  asking  after  you." 

As  the  women  descended  the  stairs  with  back- 
ward glances  and  laughter,  Felix,  leaning  over  the 
balustrade,  smiled  politely.  When  they  were  out  of 
the  house  he  slammed  the  studio  door. 

"Good  riddance!"  he  ejaculated,  with  every  ex- 
ternal evidence  of  satisfaction — because  that,  he  felt, 
was  what  he  ought  to  say.  But  he  did  not  deceive 
himself.  He  sat  down  thoughtfully. 

So  she  had  not  forgotten  him ;  she  had  missed  him 
all  these  afternoons !  Indeed,  she  had  liked  him  well 
enough  to  hunt  him  up.  He  recalled  the  hours  he 
had  spent  in  the  Tamborlaynes'  dim  library;  he  re- 
membered the  silences,  broken  only  now  and  then  by 
speech,  as  he  sat  with  her  at  the  tea-table,  waiting 
for  Gregory  to  come  home  and  sometimes  wishing 
that  he  might  be  late.  And  he  was  sad,  feeling  that 
something  unique  amid  the  experiences  of  life 


96  PREDESTINED 

receded  from  him,  or  as  if  he  were  walking  slowly, 
with  backward  looks,  away  from  an  undiscovered 
country  upon  whose  borders  he  had  hovered,  nearly 
tentatively,  for  a  little  while. 

"Ah,  it's  just  as  well  I  left  off  going  there.  In 
the  end,  I  might  have  made  myself  unhappy — who 
knows?"  He  said  this  without  surprise,  or  any  con- 
demnation of  himself.  For  there  had  stolen  over 
him  such  sweet  melancholy  as,  while  softening  the 
heart,  renders  the  mind  defenceless  before  all  wander- 
ing thoughts.  Sitting  in  the  chair  that  she  had  occu- 
pied, he  looked  about  him  at  the  room,  which  seemed 
in  some  way  changed;  and  the  faint  perfume  that 
lingered  in  the  air  was  somewhat  like  a  seductive, 
incorporeal  inhabitant. 

The  clock  struck;  it  was  time  to  dress  for  dinner. 
He  rose,  went  to  a  mirror,  and  contemplated  his 
reflection.  He  discovered  on  his  face  an  expression 
of  profound  ennui.  "How  monotonous  life  is!  .  .  ." 

She  returned,  in  a  few  days,  alone. 

She  made  no  excuse  for  her  intrusion.  Dropping 
her  furs  beside  his  manuscript,  she  sat  down  in  his 
chair  with  the  declaration: 

"I've  been  standing  in  a  dressmaker's  shop  all 
day.  I'm  just  worn  out!  Can  you  let  me  make 
some  tea  and  give  me  a  cigarette?" 

She  looked  so  tired,  pale,  and  meek  that  Felix 
felt  his  uneasiness  slipping  from  him.  He  found 
himself  making  solicitous  remarks.  With  a  shrug, 
she  answered,  in  the  tone  of  a  martyr: 

"A  woman  has  to  wear  clothes." 


EILEEN  97 

As  usual,  she  was  dressed  in  black.  Everything 
about  her  was  exquisite;  and  the  precise  undula- 
tions of  her  thick,  black  hair,  together  with  the  large 
pearls  which  she  wore  in  the  full  lobes  of  her  ears, 
seemed  to  be  trying  to  counteract,  with  an  effect  of 
dainty  sophistication,  her  habitual  demureness.  Felix 
thought  that  she  was  better  looking  than  formerly. 

She  talked  of  Gregory:  he  did  not  seem  well;  he 
was  becoming  nervous  and  despondent.  "They're 
working  him  too  hard.  A  young  man  in  a  big  law 
firm  never  has  a  moment's  rest,  it  seems.  And  as 
for  you,  I  think  you're  overdoing  it,  too."  She 
glanced  at  his  writing-table  with  an  expression  of 
dissatisfaction. 

Then,  after  a  pause,  she  asked: 

"Did  you  mind  my  bringing  those  two  women  up 
here?  You  wouldn't  if  you  knew  what  they  said 
afterward.  I  wonder  if  I  ought  to  tell  you? " 

She  pretended  to  think  better  of  it,  insisting  that 
their  remarks  would  make  him  vain.  He  urged  her 
to  go  on.  At  last,  laughing,  she  said: 

"They  thought  you  were  the  sort  of  young  man 
that  a  woman  could  fall  desperately  in  love  with." 

"What  nonsense!"  he  exclaimed,  much  flattered, 
nevertheless.  And  his  reserve  slowly  melted  in  the 
glow  of  gratification  that  stole  over  him. 

Presently  they  found  themselves  talking  quite  as 
formerly;  the  familiar  silences  of  those  other  evenings 
sealed  each  fragment  of  discussion  with  the  mark  of 
intimacy.  The  window-panes  grew  black;  the  lamp- 
light made  amber  patches  on  the  glass;  and  in  the 


98  PREDESTINED 

quiet,  she  sat  motionless,  with  eyes  pensively  down- 
cast, her  pale  face  and  slender  figure  forming  within 
the  wings  of  the  deep,  crimson  chair  a  charming 
picture  of  repose.  Upon  the  skylight  rain  began  to 
patter;  and  at  that  sound  Felix,  in  the  warm,  cosey 
room,  had  a  sudden  pang,  half  sad  and  half  delight- 
ful. His  voice  took  on,  for  one  moment,  a  fuller  and 
more  tender  intonation  which  surprised  him.  Her 
lowered  eyelashes  fluttered ;  a  faint  color  stole  across 
her  cheeks;  her  whole  person  seemed  to  stir,  though 
almost  imperceptibly,  as  a  flower  stirs  at  the  slightest 
breath  of  a  caressing  breeze. 

They  had  begun  by  talking  about  Gregory.  But 
finally,  progressing  in  their  conversation  through  the 
subjects  of  marriage  and  of  married  life,  they  found 
themselves  discussing  love. 

"Why  is  it,"  she  was  saying,  "that  love  is  almost 
always  described  to  us  in  such  flattering  terms,  as  if  it 
were  a  state  of  perfect  happiness?  For  my  part,  I 
think  there  is  little  happiness  in  it,  if  happiness  is  the 
same  thing  as  contentment.  In  love  we  are  forever 
longing  for  something  that  can  never  be  attained. 
We  reach  out  for  what  we  desire,  we  seem  to  seize  it, 
for  a  moment  we  think  we  have  it  safe;  but  we  find 
that  we  haven't — that  it  has  escaped  us." 

Felix,  scarcely  understanding  her,  expostulated 
gently: 

"  But  how  can  any  one  say  that,  who  is  as  happily 
married  as  you  are?" 

"Am  I?"  she  returned,  raising  her  eyes  to  his. 

He  made  a  gesture  of  astonishment. 


EILEEN  99 

"I  could  hardly  imagine  a  more  nearly  ideal  home 
than  yours.  Gregory  is  devoted  to  you  absolutely." 

"Oh,  yes,"  she  assented  indifferently,  and  added, 
with  a  little  bitterness:  "His  devotion  is  complete, 
and  consequently  it  is  always  the  same.  It  would 
never  occur  to  him  to  be  impatient  with  me — to  show 
jealousy  or  anger  or  brutality.  In  his  treatment  of 
me  he  is  perfect.  Perfection!  Is  there  anything  so 
monotonous?" 

Leaning  back,  she  closed  her  eyes  wearily.  Her 
pale  eyelids  looked  transparent. 

"If  he  would  only  fly  into  a  rage  at  me  some  day! 
If  he  would  only  hate  me  for  an  hour!  I  have  even 
said,  if  he  would  only  strike  me!  Then  I  would 
know  that  he,  too,  had  somewhere  in  him  violent, 
irresponsible  impulses — that  he  was  no  better  than  I." 

Felix  uttered,  sharply,  an  incredulous  laugh. 
Amazed,  secretly  agitated,  he  stared  at  her  face, 
which  he  had  come  to  think  of  as  a  living  symbol 
of  tranquillity. 

"Violent,  irresponsible  impulses  in  you?  I  have 
never  seen  you  moved  by  anything,"  he  said. 

Her  eyes  opened.  Looking  at  him  intently,  she 
retorted,  in  an  even  voice: 

"And  yet,  merely  at  the  chance  touch  of  another 
man,  I  have  felt  weak  all  over." 

Silence  fell,  a  silence  more  dangerous  than  speech, 
in  which  Felix  sat  incapable  of  motion  or  of  utterance, 
like  one  of  those  neurotic  unfortunates  before  whom 
in  a  flash  a  suicidal  thought  presents  itself,  and  who 
become  immediately  like  birds  fluttering  before  a 


ioo  PREDESTINED 

serpent,  fascinated  by  the  very  peril  contained  in 
their  imaginings. 

The  clock  struck;  it  was  half -past  six. 

"I  shall  be  late,"  she  said  quietly.  And  after  a 
while  she  rose. 

He  helped  her  to  put  on  her  coat. 

"Tuck  in  my  sleeves." 

Her  eyelashes  dropped;  she  bit  her  lower  lip. 
Then  at  last  she  gazed  straight  at  him  with  humid, 
misty  eyes,  her  mouth  relaxed  in  a  weak,  tremulous 
smile. 

He  took  her  in  his  arms.  She  turned  her  face  away. 
He  kissed  her  ear,  her  hot  cheek,  her  eyelid  wet  with 
a  tear,  her  lips.  At  once  she  became  limp  and  clung 
to  him.  And  all  the  while,  as  if  in  a  dream,  he  kept 
repeating  to  himself:  "This  is  terrible!  This  is 
terrible!" 

He  was  caught.  From  that  evening,  amid  his 
most  poignant  desires  for  recovery,  he  felt  in  the  bot- 
tom of  his  heart  a  subtle  sense  of  hypocrisy.  Like  a 
man  who,  while  passionately  reiterating  a  desire  to  be 
rid  of  some  habit  which  is  ruining  him,  cannot  help 
remembering  the  enticements  of  that  habit,  so  Felix, 
crying  out  to  himself,  "If  only  I  could  return  to  where 
I  was  before!"  found  himself  in  the  same  moment 
thinking,  with  rapt  attention,  of  that  from  which  he 
told  himself  he  wanted  to  be  free.  He  seemed  to 
see,  opening  before  his  eyes,  such  a  region  as  was 
revealed  at  a  talismanic  utterance  to  those  advent- 
urers of  the  Arabian  Nights:  a  strange  region  unut- 
terably alluring,  wrapped  in  rich  shadows  and  in 


EILEEN  101 

tinted  mists  through  which  glittered  heaped-up  treas- 
ures, guarded  by  motionless,  armed  images  that 
might,  and  might  not,  stir  into  life  at  the  foot-fall 
of  the  explorer. 

Sometimes,  in  a  sudden  access  of  strength,  he  bound 
himself  with  resolutions,  and  for  an  hour  or  two— 
perhaps  a  day — felt  safe.  But  then,  when  he  un- 
locked the  studio  door,  he  found  lying  on  the  floor 
a  note  from  her;  or  the  bell  of  his  telephone  com- 
menced to  ring;  or  he  heard  a  foot-fall  on  the  stairs. 
At  these  sights  and  sounds,  invariably  he  was  startled. 
As  for  his  condition  when  she  herself  appeared,  it 
came  to  pass,  at  length,  that  she  could  not  cross  the 
threshold  of  the  studio  without  his  good  resolutions 
beginning  to  slip  from  him. 

Now  she  would  enter  with  wide  eyes  and  parted 
lips,  perfectly  pale,  with  the  look,  almost  tragic,  of  a 
person  before  whom  all  obstacles  are  ineffective. 
Again  she  would  arrive  melting,  tremulous,  ready 
to  burst  into  tears,  half  incoherent,  swearing  that 
this  was  the  last  time  she  would  ever  see  him.  What- 
ever guise  she  came  in  was  sufficient;  he  could  not 
resist  her;  she  dominated  him.  He  was  filled  with 
an  amazement  always  fresh  at  the  sight  of  this  ele- 
gant woman — so  tranquil,  so  cold,  apparently  so 
unapproachable,  before  the  world — exhibiting  just 
for  him  these  uncontrolled  emotions. 

The  studio  became  a  place  of  memories — one  of 
those  spots  impregnated  with  the  essential  personality 
of  an  absent  one,  into  which  it  is  impossible  to  pene- 
trate without  succumbing  to  a  flood  of  reminiscent 


102  PREDESTINED 

reveries.  When  he  entered  in  the  twilight  the  very 
air  of  the  room  recalled  her  to  him;  and  when  he 
turned  up  the  lights  all  the  objects  about  him  were, 
at  first  glance,  nothing  but  souvenirs  of  her.  In  the 
crimson  chair  he  seemed  to  see  her  sitting,  head 
pressed  against  the  wing,  a  strand  of  her  thick  hair 
caught  and  spread  out  against  the  rough-woven 
fabric.  On  the  old  couch  by  the  window — where 
she  reclined  occasionally,  while  he  sat  beside  her  on 
the  ottoman — shadows  contrived  now  and  then  amid 
the  tumbled  cushions  the  vague  simulacrum  of  a 
slender  figure  clothed  in  black.  Even  the  ticking  of 
the  clock  reminded  him  of  her  exclamations  of  dismay 
and  petulance,  when  it  was  time  to  go.  She  called 
the  clock  "our  enemy,"  and,  like  an  adroit  enemy, 
it  always  caught  her  unawares.  "Six-thirty?  Good 
Heavens,  it  was  only  a  moment  ago  that  I  came  in 
that  door!"  She  noted  the  passage  of  those  hours 
with  the  qualms  of  a  miser  who  is  forced  to  spend  his 
gold. 

When  she  was  departing,  all  his  contrition  would 
return  to  him  at  her  stereotyped  cry:  "How  can  I  go 
back?"  For,  perceiving  from  the  first  how  much, 
at  such  times,  he  took  his  frailty  to  heart,  she,  too, 
was  lavish  with  evidences  of  remorse.  Accurately 
her  self-reproach  kept  pace  with  his,  so  that  he  be- 
lieved she  paid,  in  after-thoughts,  as  heavily  as  he. 
Together  they  marvelled  gloomily  at  their  condition ; 
they  said  to  each  other:  "If  only  we  had  never  met! 
It  must  have  been  fate!"  Between  them  they  man- 
aged to  weave,  in  time,  that  fabric  of  excuse  with 


EILEEN  103 

which  persons  in  their  position  try  to  veil  their  fault ; 
some  influence  more  powerful  than  their  wills  had 
done  this;  they  were  not  responsible — rather,  they 
were  to  be  pitied. 

There  were  days  when  he  felt  that  he  could  bear 
no  more  duplicity.  He  confessed  his  inability  to 
leave  her,  but  declared  that  he  should  no  longer  face 
the  trustful  eyes  of  those  he  was  deceiving.  Excited 
to  a  state  in  which  nothing  seemed  extravagant,  he 
cried : 

"We  can  go  away,  anywhere,  to  the  end  of  the 
world!  They  will  never  forgive  us;  we  shall  always 
be  hated;  but  what  difference  does  it  make?  We 
shall  have  each  other!" 

And  in  thinking  of  a  life  in  some  remote  country 
with  this  woman  whom  now  he  could  not  do  without, 
the  familiar  city  receded  to  the  horizon  of  his  con- 
sciousness— became  impalpable,  like  a  mirage — and 
in  the  faces  of  Nina  and  of  Gregory,  as  they  appeared 
before  him  in  diminished  form,  he  could  not  recognize 
the  features. 

But  at  such  outbursts  invariably  her  eyes  widened, 
a  look  of  reserve  and  caution  flickered  in  her  face,  and, 
without  stirring,  she  seemed  in  some  way  to  retreat 
from  him.  Then,  comfortingly,  nearly  as  if  talking 
to  a  child,  she  whispered: 

"Calm  yourself.     Have  patience.     Wait." 

She  was  far-seeing. 

He  became  accomplished  in  evasions,  skilful  in 
lies,  which  accumulated  till  his  whole  existence  was 
enmeshed  in  falsehood.  Deception  seemed  to  him, 


104  PREDESTINED 

after  all,  an  art  learned  very  easily;  and  he  went  on 
mastering  it  with  increasing  confidence,  sometimes 
lost  in  astonishment  at  the  facility  with  which  he 
hoodwinked  every  one. 

As  he  acquired  dexterity  in  imposition,  he  lost  the 
extreme  caution  which  had  guided  him  at  first.  At 
length,  quite  confidently  he  took  risks  that  one  time 
would  have  turned  him  cold  with  fear.  One  after- 
noon Gregory  entered  the  studio  not  five  minutes 
after  Eileen  had  left  it.  Smiling,  contented,  pleased 
at  having  half  an  hour  with  Felix,  he  sat  down  in  a 
chair  whereon  the  cushion  still  retained  an  impression 
of  her  head.  In  the  Tamborlaynes'  house,  where 
Felix  had  resumed  his  visits,  the  thickness  of  a  single 
curtain  was  screen  enough  for  a  quick  embrace. 
Gregory's  momentary  absence  from  the  room  fur- 
nished the  opportunity  for  a  murmured  word,  a 
pressure  of  the  hand,  a  hurried  kiss.  In  fact,  he  had 
only  to  turn  his  back  and  a  swift  glance  flashed 
between  the  two.  But  Gregory  Tamborlayne  per- 
ceived nothing;  one  would  have  thought  that  he  was 
blind  and  deaf  and,  maybe,  dull-witted  also.  For 
not  even  when  he  had  almost  surprised  them  in  each 
other's  arms  did  he  notice  that  phenomenon  which 
affects  fine  sensibilities  so  often:  a  "void  in  the  air," 
so  to  speak,  at  the  sudden  suspension  of  two  guilty 
impulses. 

Gregory,  whenever  he  came  near  Eileen,  continued 
to  make  Felix  the  witness  of  his  affectionate  demon- 
strations. With  askance  eyes,  Felix  would  watch 
him  bend  over  her  and  kiss  her.  "Poor  fellow!" 


EILEEN  105 

he  thought.  He  was  sorry  for  Gregory.  And  this 
pity  made  him,  at  times,  assume  involuntarily  such 
gentleness  that  Gregory  was  drawn  toward  him  the 
more.  They  managed  to  maintain  that  intimate  ae 
cord  which  had  begun  in  honest  friendship;  and  it 
came  to  pass,  at  last,  that  Felix  could  spend  an  hour 
in  Gregory's  company  enjoyably — without  remorse. 
"What  a  situation!"  Sometimes  it  seemed  to  him 
that  he  was  existing  in  a  grotesque  dream. 

But,  never  easy  for  long,  he  had  moments  of  acute 
apprehension.  Now  and  then  an  innocent  remark, 
like  a  chance  shot  finding  a  fatal  billet,  drove  into 
his  heart  a  terrible  fear  of  discovery.  When  he 
saw  a  mere  friend,  Felix  was  apt  to  scrutinize  him 
carefully.  If  he  was  unusually  nervous  on  a  day 
when  he  met  Gregory,  he  had  one  breathless  moment 
till  the  "poor  fellow's"  face  brightened  with  kind- 
liness. And  almost  always  when  he  greeted  Nina 
he  watched  her  intently  for  an  instant — then  felt  a 
general  relaxation  as  he  told  himself:  "She  knows 
nothing." 

And  what  was  to  be  the  end  of  it?  He  did  not 
know.  He  drifted  from  the  swift  current  into  the 
rapids  and  through  the  rapids  toward  the  cataract. 

One  afternoon  he  met  on  the  street  Gregory  and 
Mortimer  Fray.  They  were  going  to  an  auction  of 
old  Japanese  prints  concerning  which  Fray  was  en- 
thusiastic. The  names  "Hiroshige,"  "Outomaru," 
"Kiyonaga,"  "Hokusai"  bubbled  from  the  young 
dilettante's  lips;  he  went  into  raptures  over  "a 
beautiful  demonstration  of  the  Chinese  feeling  of  a 


io6  PREDESTINED 

Yamato  picture — a  mountain  and  some  fir-trees"; 
joining  thumb  and  second  finger,  he  made  a  dainty 
gesture  in  the  air  as  he  described  "six  'joro'  of 
the  Ukio-ye  school."  He  could  not  have  been 
more  glib  if  he  had  just  finished  reading  a  treatise 
on  Japanese  art.  He  had  his  check-book  in  his 
pocket ;  he  expected  to  bring  away  some  bargains. 

"I'll  show  you  what  I  get,  Piers — that  is,  if 
you're  interested  in  such  things." 

"Very  much,"  said  Felix.  He  had  so  thoroughly 
acquired  the  habit  of  deception  that  he  would  have 
avowed  instantly  an  intense  interest  in  something  he 
had  never  heard  of;  and  undoubtedly  he  would  have 
found  some  way  to  prove  his  affirmation. 

"You'd  better  come  along,"  urged  Gregory,  affec- 
tionately linking  arms  with  Felix. 

"I  have  some  work  to  do." 

"Always  the  industrious  apprentice!  How  does 
the  book  get  on?" 

"Very  slowly." 

"The  best  work  always  does,"  remarked  Fray, 
with  a  flattering  smile. 

Felix,  believing  that  he  saw  on  the  dilettante's  face 
the  shadow  of  a  sneer,  wondered  "what  the  man 
could  have  against  him."  Perhaps,  he  considered, 
it  was  partly  his  own  fault:  he  had  instinctively 
disliked  Fray  from  the  first. 

While  walking  home  he  thought  of  his  work,  which 
they  had  recalled  to  his  mind.  He  reflected  dismally 
that  he  had  not  been  able  to  write  an  original  sentence 
in  a  month. 


EILEEN  107 

"What  am  I  coining  to  ?  What  is  going  to  happen 
to  me?" 

Pedestrians  passed  him  with  indifferent  glances. 
He  began  to  look  absent-mindedly  at  the  faces  of 
these  strangers.  After  a  while  it  seemed  to  him  that 
they  all  wore  the  same  expression — an  expression 
of  sanity  and  health.  And  suddenly  he  felt  like  one 
who,  nursing  within  him  some  consuming,  hidden 
malady,  walks  bashfully  among  independent,  strong 
men — his  superiors. 

It  was  toward  the  end  of  March.  The  winds  were 
keen,  but  flavored  with  an  essence  vivifying,  fresh, 
and  new — an  exhalation  of  the  moistened  earth,  borne 
to  the  stony  city  from  afar,  presaging  spring.  Mem- 
ory returned  to  Felix.  He  thought  of  that  other 
spring  amid  the  roses,  of  the  sun-steeped  country- 
side, of  his  old  sensations  of  simplicity  and  innocence. 
How  far  away,  those  days !  He  had  been  happy  then. 
And  he  realized  that  he  had  not  been  happy  since. 

Contentment,  self-respect,  honesty,  everything 
worth  keeping,  he  had  thrown  away.  Crime  after 
crime  against  the  hearts  of  others  and  against  his 
own  heart  he  had  committed ;  and  for  what  ?  The 
image  of  Eileen  appeared  before  him;  he  contem- 
plated it  with  heavy  eyes,  all  his  curiosity  appeased, 
all  his  cupidity  dispelled.  Nearly  every  sentimental 
feeling  grows  feeble  some  day,  and  the  more  violent 
emotions  are  worn  out  the  sooner.  The  enchant- 
ment that  had  held  him  helpless  was  dissolving. 

And  hope  began  to  stir.  Each  year,  he  thought, 
the  land  grows  cold  and  dark;  the  winds  are  blight- 


io8  PREDESTINED 

ing;  all  the  tender,  growing  things  are  frozen  and  die, 
till  one  who  did  not  know  would  say,  "This  is  the 
end."  But  a  day  comes  when  the  earth  stirs  be- 
neath its  shrivelled  surface,  when  a  breath  of  new 
life  plays  about  it — when  sap  starts  in  the  trees  and 
buds  appear  and  grasses  thrust  through  the  soil. 
Presently  the  hillsides  bloom  again,  bright-feathered 
birds  come  warbling,  flowers  nod  everywhere,  warm 
sunshine  floods  the  ravishing  vistas,  and  the  world 
is  reborn. 

While  Felix  walked  a  fine  rain  fell.  But  in  the 
midst  of  the  drizzle  there  was  a  sudden  illumination, 
somewhat  as  if  a  great  gas-jet  had  been  lighted  over- 
head. Looking  up  at  the  leaden  clouds,  he  saw  them 
breaking.  Behind  them  appeared  a  white  film,  mov- 
ing, suffused  with  brilliancy.  Then,  through  this 
parting  veil,  down  streamed  the  sunlight,  transfigur- 
ing everything,  glinting  in  mid-air  upon  the  falling 
rain-drops,  brightening  the  streets,  the  house  fronts, 
the  faces  of  the  people.  It  seemed  to  Felix  that  this 
radiance  flowed  into  his  heart — that  something  im- 
palpable had  released  itself  from  his  body  and  was 
mounting  upward  through  the  golden  mist.  His  eyes 
quivered.  Gazing  a-sky,  he  walked  with  parted 
lips. 

When,  finally,  he  reached  the  studio,  he  found  her 
waiting  for  him.  She  was  sitting  in  the  crimson 
chair,  facing  the  door,  expectant.  Without  moving 
she  said,  coldly: 

"How  late  you  are!" 

"I've  been  walking  miles." 


EILEEN  109 

"  Alone?" 
"Yes." 

"And  I  here!" 

"Yes." 

He  did  not  approach  her.  She  stared  at  him  un- 
easily. 

"What's  the  matter  with  you  to-day?" 

"I'm  about  to  say  good-by  to  you." 

She  rose,  went  hurriedly  to  him,  and  seized  him  by 
the  shoulders. 

"Felix!" 

"That's  quite  useless,  I  assure  you." 

"Felix,  Felix,  look  at  me!" 

."I'm  looking  at  you." 

She  drew  a  long,  quivering  breath.  Tightening 
her  hold  on  him,  she  cried,  hysterically: 

"And  you  mean  to  tell  me — you  can  look  at  me 
and  tell  me — that  it's  all  over?" 

She  hid  her  face  against  his  breast. 

The  latch  clicked.  Gregory  and  Fray  were  stand- 
ing in  the  open  doorway. 

Fray  was  in  front,  with  a  portfolio  under  his  arm; 
it  was  he  who  had  opened  the  door  quickly,  without 
knocking.  On  his  weak  face  appeared  a  bitter  and 
malignant  smile,  containing  no  surprise.  Making  a 
slight  bow,  he  turned,  pushed  past  Gregory,  and 
descended  the  staircase.  Gregory  entered  the  room 
with  the  vacant  countenance  of  a  somnambulist. 

She  went,  with  dragging  feet,  to  the  crimson  chair, 
sat  down,  and  turned  away  her  face.  Perfectly 
pale,  her  husband  gazed  at  her  alone.  His  mouth 


HO  PREDESTINED 

trembled;  tears  appeared  in  his  eyes  and  rolled 
down  his  twitching  cheeks. 

At  last,  in  a  low  voice,  he  said: 

"Come." 

And  as  she  did  not  move,  after  clearing  his  throat 
he  repeated,  softly: 

"Come,  Eileen." 

She  rose.  With  fixed  eyes,  her  gloved  hands 
pressed  against  her  temples,  swiftly  she  passed  out 
of  the  room.  Gregory  followed  her.  He  closed  the 
door  behind  him  carefully. 

For  twenty-four  hours  Felix  remained  shut  up  in 
the  studio,  smoking,  pacing  the  floor,  lying  in  bed 
tormented  by  oppressive  dreams,  waking  with  a 
start  to  tell  himself:  "Yes,  it  has  happened  at  last!" 
He  had  so  often,  in  painful  moments  of  imagination, 
pictured  to  himself  just  this  catastrophe  that  at  its 
occurrence  he  felt  no  great  shock  of  surprise.  "But 
what  have  they  said  to  each  other?  What  are  they 
doing  now?  What  will  their  future  be?  I  have 
ruined  two  lives!"  Still,  he  found  these  thoughts 
negligible;  his  sympathy  and  self-reproach  were 
numb  as  he  speculated  on  his  own  future. 

At  first  it  seemed  to  him  that  every  one  must 
know,  and  hour  after  hour  he  waited  for  Nina's 
renunciation  of  him.  But  he  began  to  reason: 
"Why  should  she  know?  Those  two  would  never 
reveal  it;  whatever  Gregory  does  will  be  done  very 
quietly.  But  Fray  was  there!  And  yet,  why  should 
Fray  betray  us  all?" 

Then  he  thought  it  very  strange  that  Nina  had  not 


EILEEN  in 

telephoned  to  ascertain  if  he  was  ill.  It  was  the  first 
time  she  had  neglected  him  so  long;  her  silence  ter- 
rified him.  "That's  it;  she  knows  everything!" 
But,  again,  who  would  fell  her  ? 

At  last,  unable  to  bear  uncertainty  any  longer,  he 
set  out,  toward  evening,  for  the  Ferrol  house. 

The  streets  were  clean  and  bright;  the  sun  was 
setting;  the  upper  stories  of  the  white  stone  "sky- 
scrapers "  glowed  with  an  orange-colored  light  against 
a  sky  deep  blue,  in  which  the  little  clouds,  by  means 
of  their  transparency  and  tender  contour,  called  to 
mind  thoughts  of  spring.  On  lower  Fifth  Avenue 
people  were  walking  buoyantly,  with  cheerful  faces; 
working  girls,  passing  by  in  groups,  emitted  shrill 
laughter;  two  young  men,  with  overcoats  thrown 
open,  strode  along  swinging  their  canes  and  smiling 
genially.  So,  many  an  afternoon,  he  had  walked 
with  Gregory! 

Carriages  passed  at  a  brisk  trot,  the  horses  throw- 
ing out  daintily  their  slender  legs.  The  boyish 
driver  of  a  dray,  wearing  an  apron  of  burlap,  a 
round  badge  stuck  in  the  side  of  his  cloth  cap, 
imitated,  with  puckered  lips,  the  trilling  of  a  bird. 
Ah,  the  countryside;  the  lilac  bushes;  the  path 
through  the  woods,  its  coolness  delicious  after  the 
hot  sunshine;  the  cadenzas  of  the  birds  amid 
the  glossy  leaves!  Spring  was  coming  again,  bear- 
ing all  its  fresh  and  pure  charms — but  not  for  him. 

He  neared  the  Ferrol  house.  A  carriage  stopped 
before  the  door;  he  saw  that  it  was  Mrs.  FerroFs 
brougham.  His  courage  turned  to  water;  he  stood 


H2  PREDESTINED 

still;  he  was  about  to  make  his  escape.  But  Mrs. 
Ferrol  stepped  out  of  the  carriage,  turned,  and  saw 
him.  Automatically  he  approached,  suffocated  by 
the  beating  of  his  heart,  with  everything  dancing  up 
and  down  before  his  eyes,  like  a  man  walking  toward 
the  scaffold.  He  removed  his  hat  and  tried  to  smile. 

Her  small,  white  face,  with  its  thin  features  and 
precise  frame  of  gray  hair,  seemed  to  him  curiously 
unfamiliar.  Looking  at  him  steadily,  she  said: 

"You  were  coming  to  my  house?  My  house  is 
not  open  to  you,  sir." 

And  she  went  in,  through  the  old-fashioned  door- 
way. 

Returning  to  the  studio,  he  found  a  note  ffom 
Nina.  It  contained  the  words: 

"I  shall  never  lay  eyes  on  you  again." 

Two  weeks  later,  he  read  in  the  newspaper  that 
Nina  and  her  mother  had  embarked  for  Europe. 


PART  TWO 
MARIE 


CHAPTER  VI 

As  the  weeks  passed,  and,  even  in  the  stone-bound 
city,  the  promises  of  April,  vaguely  sweet,  were  re- 
iterated with  more  emphasis  by  May,  Felix,  of  even- 
ings brooding  in  the  studio,  realized  how  much  he 
had  owed  to  Nina's  love,  and — while  losing  that— 
how  much  else  he  had  lost.  Every  door  leading 
into  the  rich  and  pleasant  regions  which,  but  a  little 
while  before,  he  had  thought  to  frequent  for  life, 
was  closed  against  him  now.  His  isolation  seemed 
perfect. 

After  reflection,  there  remained  with  him  invari- 
ably a  dull  amazement — it  had  been  he,  erstwhile  full 
of  good  impulses  and  honest  aspirations,  that  had  so 
used  those  who  cared  most  for  him!  Such  amaze- 
ment always  ended  with  the  exclamation: 

"I  was  mad!" 

And  of  this,  at  least,  he  was  sure:  since,  in  his  cold 
retrospection,  that  period,  its  allure  now  incompre- 
hensible, its  pleasures  proved  empty,  appeared  before 
him  all  hazy  and  turbulent,  with  details  confused  as  if 
each  episode  had  been  but  half  appreciated  at  the 
time  of  its  occurrence — like  something  that  happens 
in  a  delirium,  and  the  remembrance  of  which  is  but  a 
jumble  of  feverish  extravagances. 

"5 


n6  PREDESTINED 

So  he  would  fall  to  wondering  what  power  outside 
himself,  what  evil  genius,  had  driven  him  headlong 
to  disaster — or,  as  he  said,  to  ruin. 

"That's  it,"  he  would  repeat,  "I've  ruined  my 
life!"  Thereupon,  he  would  consider  the  prospect 
of  his  changed  future  with  feelings  of  loneliness  and 
helplessness  so  profound,  that  a  great  lassitude  would 
steal  through  his  body,  and  he  would  sit  with  eyes 
fixed,  with  chin  sunk  on  breast,  with  limbs  heavy  as 
if  wrapped  in  lead,  incapable  of  putting  forth  suffi- 
cient strength  to  raise  his  hand. 

Indeed,  this  lassitude  from  dejection  did  not  en- 
tirely leave  him  at  any  hour.  In  the  morning,  he 
awoke  weary,  downcast  even  before  he  had  his  wits 
about  him.  While  getting  out  of  bed,  he  remem- 
bered with  disgust  the  office  of  The  Evening  Sphere. 
Sometimes,  half-clothed,  unable  to  make  up  his  mind 
to  finish  dressing,  he  would  stand  for  a  long  while 
behind  the  window  curtains,  thinking  of  nothing, 
gazing  out  on  the  brightest  sunshine  gloomily,  his 
whole  being  permeated  with  a  vague  bitterness  to- 
ward everything.  Then,  people  hurrying  by  re- 
minded him  that  he  must  get  to  work. 

His  work  in  the  newspaper  office,  from  which  all 
the  charm  of  strange  adventure  had  departed,  he 
approached  with  a  heavy  heart ;  necessity  had  trans- 
formed a  pastime  into  drudgery. 

Every  morning,  on  entering  The  Sphere  building, 
he  breathed  in  the  odors  of  fresh  newspapers  and  lin- 
oleum with  an  enervating  sensation  of  ennui.  Climb- 
ing the  spiral  staircase,  emerging  into  the  office  of  The 


MARIE  117 

Evening  Sphere,  to  be  enveloped  invariably  by  the 
same  pandemonium,  he  felt  as  if  he  were  slipping 
into  one  of  those  confused  dreams  full  of  intermi- 
nable, distasteful  labors. 

Round  him  machines  clattered,  steam  hissed,  iron 
clanged.  At  a  shout  and  a  rumble,  he  dodged  men 
who,  in  their  undershirts,  with  black  smears  across 
their  faces,  rolled  form-tables  at  full  speed  over  the 
metal-covered  floor.  Near-sighted  proof-readers,  pat- 
tering about  with  hands  full  of  paper,  bumped  into 
him.  At  every  step,  he  was  jostled  by  "copy  boys," 
young  fellows  in  inky  aprons  carrying  galleys  of  type, 
impatient  foremen,  bewildered  visitors,  reporters 
scampering  out  for  news.  Then,  escaping  all  these, 
approaching  a  fog  of  pipe  smoke,  he  stopped  in  an 
attitude  of  resignation  amid  the  reporters'  desks. 
These,  dilapidated  and  dusty,  covered  with  old  news- 
papers, shreds  of  tobacco,  mucilage  pots,  and  dirty 
plates  left  from  breakfasts  brought  in  to  the  "early 
shift,"  surrounded  the  square  desk  of  the  city  editor, 
and  were  themselves  hemmed  in  by  telegraphers' 
tables,  all  the  instruments  clicking,  by  typesetters' 
cases  over  which,  as  if  over  barricades,  appeared  the 
bald  heads  of  old  men,  and  by  pneumatic  tubes  and 
hoists  for  manuscript,  running  to  the  typographers' 
room  on  the  floor  above,  and  always  rattling  and 
banging. 

Here,  when  he  had  a  few  minutes'  leisure,  Felix 
would  sit  oblivious  to  the  uproar  round  him,  staring 
out  at  the  little  blossoming  park  and  the  City  Hall, 
but  seeing  nothing,  his  mind,  in  a  sort  of  stupor, 


n8  PREDESTINED 

always  groping  toward  recollections  that  induced 
remorse,  melancholy,  and  bodily  languor.  "Yes, 
yes,  I've  ruined  my  life,"  he  would  repeat  to  himself. 
All  his  thoughts  were  repinings  for  the  past ;  he  could 
see  no  future. 

Perhaps,  when  he  had  come  back  to  the  newspaper 
office  fresh  from  looking  down  at  the  calm,  inscrutable 
features  of  some  suicide,  he  would  wonder: 
"Was  he  as  bad  as  I?    Is  he  better  off  now?" 
But  then,  with  a  great  gush  of  self-pity: 
"If  I  were  in  his  place,  who  would  be  sorry?" 
It  seemed  to  his  nature  an  indispensable  concomi- 
tant to  such  an  act,  that  one  should  be  sure  before- 
hand of  some  one's  being  sorry,  of  some  one's  remem- 
bering with  at  least  a  little  tenderness. 

As  for  Felix,  he  had  no  one!  Tears  would  fill  his 
eyes,  till  he  had  to  screen  his  face  with  his  hand, 
while  the  park,  the  tall  buildings  round  about,  and 
the  bright  sky,  all  swam  together  into  a  sparkling 
mist.  He  believed  there  was  not  anywhere  such 
loneliness  as  his.  Occasionally,  he  had  an  intense 
longing  to  journey  to  his  mother's  grave,  and  there, 
throwing  himself  down,  embracing  the  moist  mound, 
cover  the  budding  flowers  with  his  tears,  while  cry- 
ing out : 

"You  loved  me,  I  am  sure!  You  would  under- 
stand!" 

But  his  mother's  grave  was  in  the  cemetery  of 
Pere-Lachaise,  in  Paris,  where,  at  the  last,  she  had 
begged  to  be  buried,  in  order  that  "she  might  remain 
in  the  place  she  had  cared  most  for." 


MARIE  119 

He  dreamed  of  other  lands,  remote  and  wild,  not 
furnished  with  conventionalities,  where,  possibly, 
with  no  one  knowing  anything  about  him,  he  might 
begin  his  life  all  over,  and  make  a  fortune  and  a  name 
for  himself.  But  where,  and  how?  Those  visions 
of  his  were  of  the  haziest:  he  saw  nothing  but  hot 
landscapes  filled  with  sunbeams,  vivid  flowers,  and 
palms,  through  which  he  drifted  at  random,  and 
which  faded,  all  at  once,  like  a  mirage. 

One  day  he  read  in  a  " society  journal"  that  Denis 
Droyt  was  in  Europe.  Though  he  felt  immediately 
a  chill,  this  news  did  not  surprise  him.  "It's  his 
chance,"  Felix  admitted.  He  imagined  that  serene, 
indefatigable  young  man  following  Nina  everywhere, 
persistently  exhibiting  before  her  all  the  admirable 
qualities  that  he  had  lacked,  dissipating  her  disgust 
for  men,  rousing  in  her  gradually  a  new  trust,  and, 
finally,  winning  her.  They  would  be  married,  and 
all  the  delightful  plans  that  Nina  and  Felix  had  once 
made  they  would  carry  out — the  voyages  afar,  the 
sojourns  in  beautiful  and  tranquil  places,  the  rose- 
colored,  random  adventures  of  the  fortunate.  So  it 
was  Droyt,  after  all,  who  was  going  to  possess  her! 
Yet  Felix  grieved  more  over  the  loss  of  what  went 
with  her  than  over  losing  her. 

Had  he  ever  really  loved  her  ?  What,  after  all,  was 
love  ?  Felix  had  an  idea  that  it  was  something  superb 
and  transfiguring,  a  divine  flaming  of  the  heart,  a 
soaring  to  a  higher  plane  of  sense — else  all  the  world's 
great  lovers  were  impostors.  Would  he  ever  experi- 
ence that  exaltation  ?  Or  would  he  die  having  known 


120  PREDESTINED 

no  nearer  approach  to  it  than  his  frail,  pallid  affection 
for  Nina,  or  his  febrile  and  unhappy  madness  for 
Eileen  ? 

The  Tamborlaynes  were  gone  from  New  York; 
their  house  in  East  Seventy-ninth  Street  was  closed 
and  boarded  tight.  Where  were  they?  Had  they 
separated?  How  would  they  patch  out  their  shat- 
tered lives  ? 

And  where  was  Mortimer  Fray? 

When  there  floated  before  him  a  vision  of  the  young 
dilettante's  face,  sharp  and  clever,  with  its  lurking 
smile  half  ingratiating  and  half  spiteful,  Felix  felt  a 
hot  thrill  at  the  pit  of  his  stomach ;  his  hands  clenched, 
he  had  a  spasmodic  desire  for  violence.  If  only  he 
could  meet  the  wretch  face  to  face! 

But  Felix  never  met  him,  and  knew  nothing  of  his 
friends  or  haunts.  It  occurred  to  him,  though,  that 
Paul  Pavin  might  know;  and  that,  at  any  rate,  here 
was  one  person  who,  thoroughly  "  continental,"  with 
experiences  of  wide  latitude,  and  social  opinions  of 
unusual  generosity,  should  be  the  same  to  him  as 
ever.  But  the  artist  had  left  America  for  France; 
his  studio  was  possessed  by  a  stranger,  and  he  was 
not  expected  to  return  to  New  York  until  mid-winter. 

So  that  chance  of  friendship  was  denied  Felix. 

His  evenings  he  spent  in  the  most  aimless  ways. 
He  lounged  in  his  rooms,  his  puppy,  subdued  and 
silent,  gazing  at  him  mournfully.  When  he  could 
bear  the  ticking  of  the  clock  no  longer,  he  went  out 
and  wandered  through  the  city,  looking  at  the  lights, 
the  moving  crowds,  the  brilliant  hurly-burly  of  amuse- 


MARIE  121 

ment  districts,  as  if  from  a  great  distance.  His 
despondency  attracted  to  his  notice  all  sorts  of  de- 
pressing sights;  a  profound  pessimism  made  him 
see  in  everything  the  saddest,  the  meanest,  and  the 
most  contemptible  elements;  his  comments  were  all 
sneers,  he  meditated  on  the  fatuity  and  baseness  of 
humanity. 

Wickit,  the  lawyer,  sent  him  three  typewritten 
notes  asking  him  to  call.  Each  note  Felix  tore  up 
with  a  savage  laugh. 

"So  he's  finally  heard  about  it,  has  he?  And  now 
he  wants  his  thousand  dollars  back  in  his  pocket!" 

One  night,  as  he  was  returning  home,  a  bent, 
familiar  figure  issued  upon  the  pavement  from  his 
doorway;  it  was  Joseph!  Felix,  concealing  himself 
in  a  shadow,  watched  the  aged  servant  shuffle  away. 
The  young  man  was  disturbed  by  obscure  forebodings. 

"Now  why  should  that  old  devil  be  sneaking  round 
after  me  ?  "  He  could  see  nothing  but  a  menace  even 
in  Joseph's  visit.  Why  not?  "All  the  world  was 
against  him." 

He  was  more  and  more  attracted  by  the  relief  from 
monotony  and  mental  tension  that  alcohol  effects. 
In  intoxication  he  found  a  means  by  which  he  could, 
for  the  hour,  become,  as  it  were,  another  being,  indif- 
ferent to  misfortune,  as  much  superior  to  regrets  as  to 
anxieties,  contemptuous  of  Fate,  replete  with  gran- 
diose, chimerical  intentions  that  he  was  going  to  trans- 
late into  deeds  "beginning  to-morrow."  During  the 
day,  he  looked  forward  to  the  evening,  when  such 
temperamental  transformation  would  be  possible. 


122  PREDESTINED 

Since  shame,  and  fear  of  rebuffs,  now  kept  him 
from  showing  himself  at  his  club — from  which,  in- 
deed, owing  to  his  neglect  to  pay  his  dues,  he  had  been 
suspended — he  frequented  the  gay  hotel  cafes  along 
Broadway.  There,  sitting  at  a  small  table  with  a 
glass  of  whiskey  and  soda  before  him,  he  became  a 
familiar  figure.  The  cashiers,  crouching  on  high 
stools  behind  their  little  grilles,  bowed  to  him  as  he 
entered;  the  bartenders  smirked  at  him  patroniz- 
ingly; the  waiters,  hovering  about  him  with  napkins 
rolled  up  under  their  left  arms,  assumed  the  easy  and 
confidential  manners  which  such  servants  exhibit  to- 
ward old  customers.  He  came  to  have  a  sort  of 
affection  for  these  places,  because  at  his  appearance, 
smiles  greeted  him.  He  liked  always  to  sit  at  the 
same  table.  Now  and  then,  he  held  long,  serious 
conversations  with  his  waiter — banal  discussions  full 
of  trivialities,  but  which,  since  he  was  drinking  while 
engaging  in  them,  seemed  to  him  at  the  moment  of 
great  interest  and  importance. 

Then,  often,  in  the  midst  of  this  recreation  he  real- 
ized the  puerility  of  it,  the  pitiable  quality  of  his  satis- 
faction, the  difference  between  the  present  and  the  past. 

Occasionally,  Felix  did  what  he  had  never  thought 
of  doing  in  the  time  of  his  prosperity:  he  spent  the 
evening  with  some  associate  from  the  newspaper 
office.  To  one,  a  reporter  called  "Johnny"  Livy, 
Felix  was  particularly  agreeable,  perhaps  because 
it  was  Livy  who  had  given  him  his  first  informa- 
tion the  day  he  had  sought  employment  of  The 
Evening  Sphere. 


MARIE  123 

This  reporter  was  a  lean,  nervous,  anxious-looking 
young  man  who  did  everything  in  jerks,  with  yellow 
stains  on  his  fingers,  and  distinguished  by  a  "Bo- 
hemian "  nonchalance  of  dress.  Between  fitful  bursts 
of  self-assertion,  he  exhibited  unconsciously  all  sorts 
of  apprehensions — fear  of  his  inability,  of  his  em- 
ployer, of  the  future,  of  everything.  A  precocious 
hypochondriac,  he  was  fascinated  by  medical  jour- 
nals. While  dining,  he  could  not  help  asserting  that 
oysters  caused  typhoid  fever,  soup  indigestion,  meat 
skin  diseases,  tomatoes  rheumatism,  cheese  cancer, 
and  so  on,  not  failing  to  ask  the  waiter  apprehen- 
sively: "Is  this  water  filtered?"  At  other  times, 
announcing  that  he  was,  at  heart,  a  Christian  Scien- 
tist, that  nothing  save  fear  harmed  any  one,  he  de- 
voured course  after  course  voraciously,  with  a  defiant 
manner. 

Felix,  starving  for  companionship,  dragged  this 
young  man,  with  his  broken  collar  and  shiny  right 
elbow,  into  Broadway  restaurants,  which  the  re- 
porter entered  rubbing  his  chin,  and  where  he  ap- 
peared ill  at  ease  till  he  had  tossed  off  a  couple  of 
cocktails.  When  they  had  finished  disparaging  their 
superiors  in  the  office,  they  discussed  journalism,  and, 
finally,  literature.  As  Felix,  slightly  intoxicated,  be- 
came eloquent,  uttered  great  names,  talked  of 
"schools"  and  "movements,"  dived  into  history 
and  emerged  scattering  quotations,  a  cloud  passed 
over  the  face  of  his  companion,  who  sat  listening 
with  an  air  of  reluctance.  Truth  is,  this  young 
reporter's  wings  were  too  feeble  for  him  to  accom- 


124  PREDESTINED 

pany  Felix  in  those  flights.  Besides,  always  noting 
a  thousand  minute  differences  between  his  and  Felix's 
clothing,  person,  voice,  manner,  and  instincts,  he  was 
unable  to  meet  friendliness  half-way.  Removed  from 
the  democratic  air  of  the  newspaper  office,  each  dis- 
cerned the  social  and  constitutional  differences  in  the 
other.  Their  evenings  together  ended.  So  passed 
that  hope  of  friendship. 

For  a  time  Felix  patronized  the  theatre  assidu- 
ously. But  to  the  tragedies  enacted  on  the  stage  he 
compared  his  own  tragedy,  and  in  the  gayety  of  the 
comedies  he  found  something  false  and  depressing. 
Then,  as  June  ended,  one  by  one  the  theatres  closed, 
till  there  were  left  running  only  a  few  musical  reviews. 
When  he  had  endured  the  illogical  uproar  of  each  of 
these  half  a  dozen  times,  he  gave  up  play-going  in 
disgust. 

He  took  long  walks  with  his  puppy  Pat,  nursing 
his  melancholy  through  empty  streets  and  amid  the 
deep  shadows  of  the  park.  Looking  up  at  the  stars, 
he  pondered  the  insignificance  of  individuals  and 
their  travail,  the  occult  object  of  life,  the  riddle  of  the 
beyond,  the  possibility  of  there  being  something  su- 
preme. 

His  sense  of  loneliness  did  not  diminish  when  he 
tried  to  imagine  the  propinquity  of  a  God.  He  could 
not  convince  himself  that  anything,  human  or  super- 
natural, had  a  care  for  him. 

He  read  Nietzsche  and  Hegel,  Marcus  Aurelius 
and  Renan,  Loyola  and  Luther.  So  many  great 
minds  in  conflict !  Which  to  believe,  when  all  seemed 


MARIE  125 

scuffling  together  crying,  "No,  no,  God  is  like  this! 
Not  so,  this  only  is  man's  proper  attitude!  Nay, 
here  alone  is  peace ! "  Rumpling  the  leaves  of  "  New 
Thought"  volumes,  he  essayed  to  find  therein  some 
credible  gospel.  His  eyes  alone  perused  the  pages. 
Those  bland,  charitable  authors,  with  all  the  man- 
nerisms of  congenital  saints,  were  just  then  so  far 
removed  from  him  in  texture  of  the  soul  that  he  could 
not  understand  the  tongue  in  which  they  wrote. 

In  the  bookshops  he  saw  on  all  sides  placards 
advertising  Oliver  Corquill's  latest  novel,  "The  Rain- 
bow." Felix  read  this  book  with  amazement.  Its 
pervasive  optimism  persuaded  the  young  man  that 
Corquill's  was,  after  all,  a  surface  intellect,  without 
deep  experience,  of  the  sort  that  takes  everything  for 
granted.  As  he  reached  "Finis,"  his  idol  fell  to 
pieces.  The  book  was  actually  calculated  to  enamour 
one  of  life! 

Felix,  for  his  part,  dreamed  of  writing  a  great 
novel  crushing  in  its  bitterness  and  cruel  truth,  that 
should  reveal  life  "as  it  was" — a  mad  mask  of 
stupidities  and  agonies. 

So,  sitting  down  at  his  work-table,  he  lighted  a 
cigar,  took  up  his  pen,  and  waited  for  the  thrill  of 
inspiration. 

But  soon,  in  the  silence,  his  thoughts  turned  in- 
ward. And  he  would  remain  for  a  long  while  in  one 
attitude,  dreaming  of  a  different  sort  of  life,  eating 
out  his  heart  for  the  responsive  touch  of  another's 
hand,  for  the  brightening  of  another's  eye,  for  one 
vocal  intonation  of  affection. 


126  PREDESTINED 

Such  evenings  often  ended  in  hard  drinking.  And 
now,  through  the  stupor  so  induced,  the  melancholy 
note  still  faintly  struck,  like  the  distant,  lugubrious 
tolling  of  a  bell,  seeming  to  make  the  sound:  "Alone 
.  .  .  Alone.  .  .  ." 

There  were  times  when  he  sprang  up,  crying  aloud, 
in  an  incredulous  voice: 

"Somewhere  people  are  happy!" 

Then,  with  the  thought,  "Happiness!  In  God's 
name,  where  is  it  to  be  found?"  he  would  rush  out 
into  the  darkness  and  roam  everywhere. 

One  such  evening,  early  in  September,  when  he  had 
tramped  the  streets  till  footsore,  as  midnight  struck 
Felix  found  himself  before  a  large  hotel  in  Times 
Square.  Seeing  men  and  women  descending  from 
automobiles  and  entering  there,  he  believed  that  he, 
too,  was  hungry;  he  thought  that  he  would  enjoy 
something  dainty  to  eat  and  a  pint  bottle  of  cham- 
pagne. He  entered  the  hotel  restaurant. 

This  apartment,  illuminated  from  its  lofty  roof  of 
glass  with  a  green  radiance  imitating  moonlight,  was 
fashioned  to  resemble  the  approach  of  an  Italian 
garden — buff  stone  terraces,  with  staircases,  balus- 
trades, and  urns  containing  scarlet  flowers,  rising  at 
the  rear  against  a  background  of  scenery  painted  with 
a  nocturnal  landscape  full  of  poplars,  and  embel- 
lished by  an  artificial  moon.  The  white  tables  in  the 
body  of  the  restaurant,  scattered  under  trellises,  were 
nearly  all  occupied;  a  monotonous  ripple  of  conver 
sation  was  punctuated  occasionally  by  a  thin  clask 
of  silverware ;  before  the  terraces  a  fountain  tinkled ; 


MARIE  127 

beneath  the  moon,  violins  and  flutes  were  uttering 
waltz  music. 

Many  persons  looked  attentively  at  Felix.  Sud- 
denly he  saw,  some  distance  off,  at  a  table  beside  a 
stone  pillar,  a  familiar  face — then  another.  Miss 
Llanelly  and  Miss  Sinjon,  whom  he  had  met  in  Paul 
Pavin's  studio,  were  staring  at  him.  A  man,  seated 
with  them,  presented  a  broad  back. 

The  head  waiter  attempted  to  lead  Felix  past  their 
table.  Miss  Llanelly  put  out  her  hand. 

"You  in  town?"  she  exclaimed,  with  a  rich,  Irish 
smile,  her  ingenuous  astonishment  at  once  subtly 
flattering  him.  Her  skin  contained  contrasts  of  red 
and  white  no  less  dazzling  than  ever;  she  fluttered 
her  eyelashes,  which  were  long  and  heavy,  in  a  co- 
quettish manner.  Her  large  figure,  full  below  the 
shoulders,  at  the  hips  adroitly  constricted  to  a  re- 
semblance of  slimness,  was  encased  in  a  tight  dress 
of  taffy-colored  Tussur  silk.  A  wide-brimmed  hat, 
tilted  off  her  forehead,  let  some  "willow"  plumes 
trail  half-way  down  her  back. 

Felix  eagerly  shook  hands  with  both  young  women. 
A  glow  of  pleasure  stole  through  him;  unwilling  to 
pass  on  immediately,  he  uttered  some  remarks  at 
random — he  complained  of  the  hot  weather,  regretted 
the  invigorating  days  of  winter,  and  began  to  recall 
Pavin.  Miss  Llanelly  interrupted,  quickly: 

"But  pardon  me!    Mr.  Piers — Mr.  Noon." 

The  man  with  them  got  upon  his  feet. 

This  was  a  burly  fellow,  clad  in  blue  flannel,  with 
a  superb  Persian  opal,  cut  like  a  scarab,  in  his  cravat. 


128  PREDESTINED 

Prematurely  gray  at  the  temples,  his  heavy,  dark 
cheeks  smooth-shaven,  his  expression  at  once  shrewd 
and  self-indulgent,  he  seemed  to  belong  to  that  class 
of  young  New  York  men  which  spends  the  day 
feverishly  clutching  at  money  in  order  to  pass  the 
night  gayly  letting  go  of  it.  He  was  withdrawing 
his  large,  soft  hand  from  Felix's  when,  at  a  sudden 
thought,  he  inquired  abruptly: 

"What  Mr.  Piers,  may  I  ask?" 

And  as  Felix  answered,  a  flush  slowly  invaded  the 
dusky  countenance  of  this  stranger. 

"You're  all  alone?  What  a  pity!"  said  Miss 
Llanelly.  By  dint  of  looking  fixedly  at  Mr.  Noon, 
she  caused  that  gentleman  to  mumble: 

"Why  not  join  us?    We're  just  beginning." 

"Fine!"  cried  Miss  Llanelly,  vigorously.  "We've 
ordered  all  kinds  of  things."  Her  lips,  a  vivid  red, 
puckered  greedily;  she  had,  she  announced,  "one 
grand  appetite." 

Felix  glanced  at  Miss  Sinjon.  She  continued 
silent,  calmly  and  disinterestedly  regarding  him  with 
her  green  eyes,  the  lids  of  which  seemed  somewhat 
reddened.  He  felt  himself  blushing;  he  hesitated, 
then  sat  down  stiffly.  He  was  not  used  to  indiffer- 
ence from  women. 

This  one  was  less  obtrusively  attired  than  her 
friend,  in  linen  dress  and  hat  of  russet — a  hue  har- 
monizing with  her  hair  of  reddish-brown,  and  lending 
to  her  translucent  skin,  touched  round  the  eyes  with 
the  faintest  possible  coloring,  a  delicate  warmth. 
Her  irises,  clear  as  the  brooch  of  green  beryls  that 


MARIE  129 

she  wore,  lost  effect  because  of  the  lightness  of  her 
eyelashes;  her  cheek-bones,  without  actually  pro- 
truding, still  seemed  prominent ;  her  white  chin  was 
square  to  a  degree  unusual  in  young  women.  She 
was  eclipsed,  as  it  were,  by  her  handsome  and  ex- 
uberant companion.  Her  self-possession,  however, 
was  perfect. 

When  Felix  ventured,  with  an  accent  of  regret,  that 
it  was  a  long  while  since  he  had  seen  her,  observing 
him  serenely  she  answered,  in  a  quiet  voice: 

"Do  you  count  the  times  you  have  looked  at  me 
without  bowing?" 

Her  reply  was  like  an  unexpected  blow  in  the  face. 

"I?    Never!"  he  ejaculated. 

But  in  the  most  indifferent  tones  she  recalled  that 
behavior  of  his  exactly  to  his  mind ;  it  had  occurred 
in  midwinter — once  at  Twenty-third  Street  and 
Broadway,  again  before  a  hotel  in  Fifth  Avenue. 
Greatly  embarrassed,  he  stammered  that  there  was 
some  mistake,  that  he  had  not  recognized  her.  A 
sarcastic  smile  barely  touched  her  lips;  and  her 
perspicacious  gaze,  as  if  penetrating  to  the  depths  of 
his  brain,  seemed  to  assure  him:  "I  am  not  easily 
taken  in."  Then,  at  last  releasing  him  from  that 
look,  leaning  back  and  scrutinizing  the  whole  res- 
taurant, she  uttered: 

"I  don't  seem  to  see  any  one  I  know  here  to-night, 
do  you?" 

Felix  was  first  dumfounded,  then  angered.  What 
impertinence!  From  her  manner  one  might  think 
she  deserved  everything  due  to  a  person  in  the  most 


130  PREDESTINED 

impregnable  position  in  society!  As  a  matter  of 
fact,  however,  what  was  her  exact  position? 

Miss  Llanelly,  after  an  awkard  pause  plunging  into 
distracted  conversation,  speedily  informed  him. 

That  evening  a  musical  extravaganza,  called  "The 
Lost  Venus,"  had  commenced  at  the  Trocadero  The- 
atre; Miss  Sinjon  and  Miss  Llanelly  were  engaged 
in  it.  According  to  the  latter,  the  "first-night"  had 
gone  with  such  a  dash,  and  even  the  newspaper 
critics  had  been  so  well  pleased,  that  the  piece  was 
bound  to  remain  in  New  York  all  winter.  The 
music  was  "the  kind  you  like  to  whistle";  there  was 
a  "square  laugh  in  every  line";  the  manner  of  pro- 
duction was  superb;  no  expense  had  been  spared; 
it  was  "in  Montmorrissy's  best  style."  "And  you 
know  his  shows,  Mr.  Piers.  You  missed  it?  Isn't 
that  miserable !  Well,  you  must  rush  to  it  to-morrow 
night,  for  sure;  Marie  and  I  are  on  at  a  quarter  to 
nine,  with  the  Six  Daughters  of  the  Due  des 
Champs-Ely  sees.  Such  swell  gowns!  Where  is  that 
waiter?"  And  to  Noon,  in  a  voice  of  authority: 
"Billy,  Mr.  Piers's  glass  is  empty."  She  pro- 
nounced Felix's  name  as  if  it  were  something  un- 
usual. 

The  waiter  arrived  with  another  quart  of  cham- 
pagne. He  removed  the  oyster-plates  and  served 
minced  crabs  a  la  cardinal. 

The  encircling  babble  of  voices  was  penetrated  by 
several  deep  'cello  tones,  then  by  a  sweet  violin 
phrase,  scarcely  audible,  and  the  rhythmic  rippling 
of  flute  notes. 


MARIE  131 

"Anitra's  Dance!"  exclaimed  Felix,  forgetting  all 
else,  wishing  only  that  he  could  hear  distinctly. 

"From  the  Peer  Gynt  suite,  by  Grieg,"  assented 
Mr.  Noon,  in  a  rich  bass  voice,  profoundly  nodding. 
He  gulped  down  another  glass  of  champagne;  then, 
turning  his  moist  eyes  on  Felix,  apparently  apropos 
of  nothing  he  declared: 

"The  Philistine  element  in  life  is  not  the  failure  to 
understand  art."  He  frowned  in  perplexity.  Sud- 
denly he  added,  with  an  air  of  heavy  satisfaction: 

"  Oscar  Wilde  said  that.    Now,  Oscar  Wilde " 

Miss  Llanelly  broke  in: 

"If  you're  fond  of  real  good  music,  Mr.  Piers, 
that's  another  reason  why  you  must  hear  'The  Lost 
Venus'  right  away." 

"I  am  fond  of  all  good  things,"  said  Felix.  "Or 
perhaps  I  should  say,  of  all  beautiful  things,  all 
sense-stirring  things — of  everything  that  can  lift  one 
emotionally  out  of  monotony."  He  had  no  sooner 
finished  speaking  than  moisture  filled  his  eyes,  so 
deeply  did  his  whole  being  thrill  at  that  profession — 
as  if,  with  a  few  words,  he  had  made  by  accident  a 
revelation  exquisitely  true,  as  if  he  had  never  so  clearly 
interpreted  for  himself  the  supreme  instinct  of  the 
soul  within  him. 

The  emotional  stimuli  in  life,  the  divine  exaltations 
that,  transfiguring  the  nature,  at  the  same  time  trans- 
form the  world — how  he  longed  to  experience  all  of 
them  to  the  full!  To  enjoy,  and  in  enjoying  to  for- 
get, when  there  was  so  much  to  forget,  and — it  seemed 
after  all — so  much  to  enjoy!  Wine  in  the  blood, 


132  PREDESTINED 

throbbing  music,  odors  of  flowers  and  perfumes, 
visions  of  red  lips  and  humid  eyes,  combined  to 
evoke  indeterminate  and  lovely  promises — earnests 
of  such  oblivion,  of  such  effacement  of  the  common- 
place and  sad,  as  may  have  come  in  premonition  to 
those  worn  mariners  out  of  the  drear  and  vacant  sea, 
trembling  even  to  sniff  the  fumes  of  Circe's  cup. 
Ah,  to  be  young  in  every  fibre,  to  search  out  and  seize 
the  treasures  that  the  world  should  hold  for  youth! 
And  before  his  mind's  eye  the  horizon  of  existence 
seemed  to  widen,  to  recede  immeasurably ;  fogs  blew 
away;  sunlight  poured  down;  he  saw,  far  off,  a 
myriad  transports  prepared.  The  joy  of  the  dis- 
coverer of  a  new  paradise  flowed  through  him;  he 
quivered  from  anticipation  of  great  happiness;  he 
recognized  his  youth  and  its  potentialities  as  a  god 
might  recognize  his  divinity.  And  what,  indeed,  was 
contact  with  divinity  if  not  this  exaltation?  He 
would  have  liked  to  raise  his  glass  and  cry  to  the 
whole  world: 

"I  give  you  the  senses,  in  enrapturing  which  we 
soar  free  from  all  chains  toward  the  sublime!" 

The  music  palpitated  in  more  ravishing  tones ;  the 
soft  green  scene  took  on  a  dreamlike  aspect;  the 
faces  of  the  women  were  invested  with  all  sorts  of 
beauties  hitherto  unsuspected.  Miss  Llanelly's  cheeks 
and  mouth  called  up  the  thought  of  full-blown  roses  ; 
but  in  the  pale  face  of  Marie  Sinjon  Felix  discovered 
a  delicate  allure,  such  as  exists  in  a  bizarre,  exotic 
flower.  His  heart  beat  heavily.  A  mist  passed  be- 
fore his  eyes. 


MARIE  133 

"  Why  do  you  dislike  me  ?  "  he  whispered  in  her  ear. 

"I  do  not  dislike  you,"  she  replied,  looking  at  him 
calmly. 

He  thought,  "She  means  she  neither  dislikes  me 
nor  likes  me."  And  while  Noon,  leaning  forward 
with  cigar  smoke  curling  round  his  massive  face,  was 
telling  a  long  anecdote  which  threatened  to  conclude 
equivocally,  Felix  watched  intently  the  unusual 
squareness  and  the  whiteness  of  her  chin. 

The  music  ended;  the  musicians,  packing  away 
their  instruments,  departed.  In  corners  of  the  res- 
taurant attendants  were  putting  out  lights  and  piling 
up  chairs.  A  few  feet  away,  a  waiter  stood  contem- 
plating Mr.  Noon  reproachfully. 

"What  time  is  it?" 

"Two  o'clock!" 

"You  don't  mean  it!" 

As  they  issued  from  the  hotel,  they  saw,  all  along 
Broadway,  an  army  of  dirty  laborers  strung  out  be- 
side the  car  tracks,  tearing  up  the  street  by  the  light 
of  gasoline  torches,  which  roared  overhead  while 
shooting  forth  horizontally  blinding  yellow  flames. 
A  tepid  breeze  wavered  through  the  unwashed  town, 
bearing  with  it  odors  of  gasoline  fumes,  soft  asphalt, 
and  sewer  gas.  Shredded  rubbish  glided  along  the 
pavement.  Even  the  black  sky  looked  dusty. 

Mr.  Noon,  choosing  an  electric  cab  from  the  line 
drawn  up  in  front  of  the  hotel,  opened  the  low  door. 
Miss  Llanelly  jumped  in. 

"Shall  we  give  you  a  lift  home,  dear?"  she  in- 
quired sweetly  of  Miss  Sinjon. 


134  PREDESTINED 

"You  know  that  it's  only  a  step,  for  me." 

"If  you  will  allow  me,"  proposed  Felix. 

Miss  Llanelly  sank  back  on  the  cushions  with  a 
bright  smile. 

"Good-night,  then,"  she  called,  gayly.  "Good- 
night, Mr.  Piers!  So  glad!  To-morrow  evening, 
remember!" 

Mr.  Noon  ponderously  waved  his  hand.  The  cab 
disappeared.  Felix  and  Miss  Sinjon  remained  to- 
gether on  the  sidewalk.  He  signalled  the  nearest 
chauffeur. 

"But  it's  only  a  step." 

"Never  mind." 

They  entered  the  vehicle;  she  gave  an  address  in 
Forty-eighth  Street.  They  were  whirled  northward 
through  the  stale  night  air. 

Street  lights  one  after  another  shone  upon  her  face; 
her  eyes  were  fixed  ahead,  her  lips  composed;  even 
while  in  contact  with  him  how  far  removed  she  was, 
apparently,  in  thought! 

"What  are  you  thinking  of  ?"  he  asked  her,  gently. 

"I  am  thinking  of  this  abominable  city." 

"Let  us  escape  it  for  a  little  while."  And  as  she 
made  no  reply,  he  called  to  the  chauffeur: 

"Drive  through  the  park." 

The  automobile  passed  Forty-eighth  Street,  rushed 
on  along  the  empty  thoroughfare,  and,  finally,  plunged 
in  amid  the  trees. 

Sweet  and  pure  air  blew  round  them,  soft  as  a 
tender  breath  upon  the  cheek,  redolent  of  dewy 
blades  and  leaves.  Beyond  the  roadway  the  bushes 


MARIE  135 

rose  in  blue-black  masses;  then,  here  and  there,  a 
solitary  gas-light  was  surrounded  by  a  wide  aureole 
of  foliage,  the  raw  green  of  which  was  like  no  hue 
in  nature.  As  they  penetrated  the  odorous  recesses 
of  the  park,  their  progress  was,  for  Felix,  like  an 
abandonment  of  the  known  universe,  a  passage  into 
absolute  phantasma,  promising  who  knew  what  rapt- 
urous revelations? 

Two  funnels  of  light  appeared  far  ahead,  ap- 
proached swiftly,  dazzled,  and  flashed  past.  In  the 
deep  tonneau  of  that  automobile,  a  man  and  a  woman, 
arms  round  each  other,  were  united  in  a  kiss. 

Farther  on,  they  met  a  hansom  cab,  flitting  through 
shadows,  drawn  by  an  old,  ambling  horse.  Their 
lanterns  illumined  for  an  instant  two  figures  close 
together.  And  Felix  imagined  all  the  dim  roadways 
of  that  place,  all  the  secret  by-paths,  all  the  perfumed, 
silent  coverts,  thus  peopled,  full  of  love.  When  he 
kissed  her,  the  quality  of  her  submission  seemed  to 
tell  him  that  she  had  expected  this  conclusion  from 
the  first,  and  did  not  care  one  way  or  the  other. 

Soon,  turning  her  green  eyes  full  on  him,  she  said, 
with  a  stiff  smile: 

"You  see,  one  doesn't  escape  the  city  by  coming 
into  the  park." 


CHAPTER  VII 

FELIX  made  haste  to  attend  "The  Lost  Venus"  at 
the  Trocadero  Theatre.  There,  sitting  in  the  first 
row,  he  saw,  amid  the  grouping  and  melting  of 
tableaux  on  the  brilliant  stage,  Marie  Sinjon,  all  her 
charms  enhanced,  wearing  in  the  first  act  an  extrava- 
gant hat  and  dress  the  color  of  autumnal  leaves,  and 
in  the  second  act  a  spangled,  low-neck  gown  of 
black  and  green,  with  a  train  extraordinarily  long, 
and  a  tiara  of  paste  brilliants. 

When  he  remembered  his  evening  with  her,  his 
heart  beat  heavily:  the  glamour  of  the  footlights  in- 
formed that  intimacy  with  a  new  value.  At  last, 
she  looked  down  and  recognized  him.  It  was  he 
who  blushed. 

She,  like  her  friend  Miss  Llanelly,  was  a  "show 
girl" —  one  of  those  actresses  whose  roles  consisted 
in  little  more  than  standing  round  and  looking  hand- 
some, who  were  distinguished  from  their  harder-work- 
ing sisters  of  the  chorus  by  their  beauty,  their  costly 
costumes,  their  simulation  of  an  elegant  languor, 
their  air  of  conferring  a  favor  on  audiences  merely 
by  their  mute  appearance.  Stories  remembered  of 
a  few  of  them  concerning  jewels,  automobiles,  jour- 
neys to  Europe,  winnings  in  Wall  Street,  and  suits 
for  breach  of  promise,  invested  them  all  with  a  per- 
verse dignity. 

136 


MARIE  137 

In  the  sphere  which  they  inhabited,  if  anywhere, 
thought  Felix,  was  to  be  found  gayety  and  distraction. 
The  young  man  was  grateful  to  the  chance  that  had 
offered,  at  a  moment  of  profound  depression,  this 
opportunity.  He  lost  no  time  in  returning  to  West 
Forty-eighth  Street,  where,  on  the  ninth  floor  of  an 
apartment  hotel,  Marie  Sinjon  occupied  two  small 
rooms — the  "parlor,"  lined  with  crimson  cartridge- 
paper,  crowded  with  frail  cherry  furniture,  band- 
boxes, and  theatrical  trunks,  looking  out  over  the 
back  yards. 

She  received  him  in  negligee  with  unconcern.  Their 
discussion  of  "The  Lost  Venus"  was  interrupted  by 
a  woman  hairdresser:  Marie  Sinjon,  in  a  wadded 
kimono  of  gray  silk,  sat  down  before  a  cheval-glass 
and,  without  any  coquetry,  submitted  to  this  person's 
ministrations. 

The  hairdresser,  squat  and  shapeless,  her  lips  dis- 
creetly clamped  upon  a  bristle  of  hairpins,  kept  shoot- 
ing at  Felix,  by  means  of  the  mirror,  stealthy  glances 
out  of  her  small,  black  eyes,  which  were  set  in  a  face 
of  indeterminable  age.  Finally,  she  mumbled,  in  an 
innocent  tone: 

"Didn't  you  wish  to  pay  to-day?" 

A  faint  flush  stained  Marie  Sinjon's  cheek-bones. 
She  answered,  rather  sharply: 

"You  know  I  always  pay  on  Saturday." 

The  hairdresser  raised  her  eyebrows,  shrugged  her 
shoulders,  and  compressed  her  lips  the  more,  as  if  she 
had  been  rebuffed  while  offering  to  do  her  customer 
a  service.  Packing  her  brushes  and  curling-irons  into 


138  PREDESTINED 

a  black  satchel,  she  cast  a  last  look  at  the  young 
woman's  head — a  monument  of  tawny  curls  and  un- 
dulations. Then,  with  another  stare  at  Felix,  she 
took  herself  off. 

He  understood  that  little  comedy.  "This  girl  is 
at  least  not  mercenary,"  he  considered.  And,  in  his 
self-satisfaction  at  having  made  so  shrewd  a  judg- 
ment, he  invited  her  to  dinner. 

But,  with  a  sudden  gleam  of  eye,  she  shook  her 
head. 

"Some  other  time." 

Then,  seeing  that  he  was  really  disappointed,  she 
became  curious. 

"Why  do  you  ask  me  that?    I  thought " 

"What?" 

She  looked  at  him  in  a  nearly  spiteful  way,  then 
flashed  forth: 

"You  might  meet  some  one,  perhaps!" 

Moving  to  the  window,  she  turned  her  back  on 
him.  Dusk  had  fallen  upon  a  rainy  day;  through  a 
thin  mist,  the  back  yards  and  rear  walls  of  the  houses 
opposite  appeared  unutterably  shabby,  gloomy,  and 
forlorn.  She  continued  gazing  on  this  scene. 

He  joined  her.  He  was  flattered  by  her  speech, 
which  seemed  to  him  almost  born  of  jealousy ;  he  was 
delighted  by  the  atmosphere  of  intimacy  that  she  had 
evoked  so  swiftly,  all  without  intention,  he  believed. 
The  prospect  of  entering  forthwith  into  a  sentimental 
part  exhilarated  him.  He  was  quite  careless  what 
he  said  so  long  as  it  was  tender.  His  voice  fell  in- 
stinctively into  the  most  melting  tones. 


MARIE  139 

"How  you  have  misjudged  me!  As  if  I  could  feel 
that  way  toward  you !  It  would  mean  that  I  did  not 
understand  you,  that  I  did  not  recognize  you  in- 
stantly for  what  you  are — utterly  different,  a  nat- 
ure superior  to  all  this,  misplaced  just  for  the  mo- 
ment—" 

He  hesitated ;  should  he  have  employed  more  deli- 
cacy? But  she,  to  his  amazement,  laying  her  arm 
across  the  window-sash,  leaning  her  forehead  on  her 
hand,  began  to  sob. 

"Life  is  so  unfair!"  she  gasped. 

In  stifled  accents,  she  stammered  an  incoherent 
synopsis  of  her  sorrows — the  isolation  of  her  heart 
amid  the  wastes  into  which  fate  had  forced  her,  the 
meanness  of  every  one's  intentions  toward  her,  the 
struggle  against  continual  disgrace,  the  cruelty  of  the 
world's  judgment,  the  injustice  of  protected  women: 
in  fine,  she  exposed  a  whole  gallery  of  pathetic  views 
of  life.  Why  she  was  telling  all  this  to  him,  she  said, 
she  did  not  know.  Perhaps  it  was  because  something 
in  his  face  promised  that  comprehension,  that  sort  of 
friendship,  she  had  sometimes  dreamed  of. 

"What  am  I  saying!"  she  cried  suddenly,  showing 
him  her  green  eyes  full  of  what  seemed  consternation, 
and  her  translucent  cheeks  smeared  with  tears.  "I 
am  crazy,  to  talk  this  way!  What  is  there  about  you 
— you  had  better  go  quickly,  and  not  come  back. 
That's  it,  go,  go!"  Her  voice  had  hysterical  intona- 
tions. She  tried  to  push  him  from  her.  Her  arm, 
protruding  white  as  marble  from  the  sleeve  of  her 
kimono,  was  peculiarly  strong. 


140  PREDESTINED 

But  he,  at  first  bewildered  by  this  outburst,  was  in 
a  moment  greatly  touched.  He  saw  her  just  as  she 
had  portrayed  herself  in  the  paroxysm  of  self-pity  that 
one  gentle  word  of  his  had  caused.  Poor  little  girl, 
so  lonely,  so  helpless,  and  so  put  upon!  In  compas- 
sion, his  frivolity  of  purpose  disappeared. 

He  took  her  hand,  which  was  neither  cold  nor  hot, 
but  cool ;  he  put  his  arm  round  her  shoulder  with  the 
gesture  of  a  brother.  In  a  low  voice — all  the  while 
thinking  that  he  was  acting  rather  finely — he  spoke 
of  the  impermanency  of  misfortune  to  the  brave,  of 
"a  divine  something  that  takes  care  of  all  of  us  in  the 
end."  Many  a  scrap  of  comforting  philosophy  he 
murmured  that  he  had  read  but,  in  respect  of  his  own 
case,  had  been  unable  to  believe.  He  exhorted  her 
to  hope  for  better  times,  for  truer  friends,  and, 
as  one  of  these,  he  offered  himself,  with  a  sweet 
courtesy,  "for  so  long  as  she  should  need  him."  She 
grew  calmer,  drew  a  quivering  breath  or  two,  used 
his  handkerchief,  and  softly  thanked  him.  And  he, 
who  had  come  with  the  most  selfish  of  designs,  was 
vaguely  conscious  that  he  had  stayed  to  incur,  just 
how  he  did  not  know,  some  subtle  kind  of  obligation. 

This  obligation,  without  trying  to  analyze  it,  he 
accepted  carelessly,  while  marching  home  that  even- 
ing in  the  highest  spirits.  His  heart  was  expanded 
by  delectable  anticipations:  he  was  going  to  escape 
solitude,  to  know  excitement,  to  have  companions  of 
some  sort. 

Night  after  night  he  attended  the  Trocadero  The- 
atre, sitting  always  in  the  first  row,  on  the  right-hand 


MARIE  141 

side  of  the  auditorium,  near  the  drums.  It  was  not 
long  before  he  had  all  the  music  and  lines  of  "The 
Lost  Venus"  by  heart.  He  knew  each  cue  for  the 
entrance  of  the  "show  girls";  and  when  they  ap- 
peared— six  in  number,  undulating  in  their  beautiful 
dresses,  gazing  out  over  the  orchestra  almost  arro- 
gantly— he  would  wait  without  moving  until  Marie 
Sinjon,  coming  to  a  stop  near  by,  should  recognize 
him.  Finally,  losing  all  interest  in  the  performance 
when  she  was  not  on  the  stage,  Felix  would  watch 
the  drummer. 

This  fellow  had  a  broad,  ugly  face,  ornamented 
with  dyed  "mutton-chop"  whiskers  that  merged  into 
his  mustache,  splotched  across  the  nose  from  alco- 
holic poisoning,  and  farther  distinguished  by  the 
watery  eyes  and  tremulous,  lugubrious  mouth  of  one 
of  those  neurasthenic  persons  always  ready  to  burst 
into  tears.  He  beat  his  drum  as  a  virtuoso  plays  the 
piano,  with  the  most  exquisite  attention  to  the  score 
and  the  conductor's  baton,  rolling  up  his  eyes  and 
throwing  his  head  about  in  an  artistic  ecstasy.  His 
behavior  diverted  Felix,  who  wondered  what  sort  of 
life  the  man  led  outside  the  playhouse. 

Felix  became  known  by  sight  to  the  chorus  girls 
and  the  comedians,  to  the  ushers  and  the  ticket  sell- 
ers, and  even  to  the  owner  of  the  play,  Montmor- 
rissy,  a  short,  obese,  debilitated-looking  individual 
with  a  large  nose  and  a  black  mustache,  who  some- 
times, in  evening  dress,  stood  in  the  lobby  of  the 
theatre,  smoking  a  cigar,  exhibiting  his  diamond 
rings,  and  chatting  with  acquaintances.  Those  em- 


I42  PREDESTINED 

ployed  about  the  place  commenced  to  nod  to  Felix 
and,  perhaps,  to  smile  behind  his  back.  The  keeper 
of  the  stage  entrance — an  old  ruffian  with  a  growl 
for  every  one — so  far  unbent  as  to  accept  his  mes- 
sages and  tips. 

He  grew  used  to  waiting  in  the  shadows  of  West 
Thirty-sixth  Street,  by  a  dingy  door  from  which,  soon 
after  eleven  o'clock  at  night,  issued  the  chorus  girls, 
their  faces  pale  from  fatigue  and  scrubbing  with  cold 
cream,  their  clothing  and  demeanor  in  acute  con- 
trast to  their  dainty  costumes  and  sprightly  manners 
on  the  stage.  He  saw,  in  the  gloom  of  that  side 
street,  the  reverse,  as  it  were,  of  the  theatrical  medal 
— the  butterflies  of  the  footlights  changed  into  drab, 
serious  working  people.  The  dancers  were  reduced 
to  the  appearance  of  shop-girls;  the  comedians 
emerged  from  their  false  noses  and  ridiculous  wigs 
as  aging,  harassed-looking  men ;  the  tenor — just  now 
how  fascinating,  devil-may-care  a  rascal,  in  his  azure 
uniform  of  the  Hussars! — was  pounced  upon  by  a 
resolute  wife  and  hustled  home;  the  very  prima 
donna — queen  of  a  glittering  kingdom,  half  an  hour 
since — appeared  fresh  from  wiping  off  her  girlish- 
ness  and  animation  with  her  rouge,  to  wrangle, 
maybe,  with  some  shabby  pedler  of  lace  under- 
wear who,  bill  in  hand,  had  managed  to  waylay  her. 
It  seemed  that  of  all  the  company  there  was  but  one 
set  which  did  not  lose,  on  contact  with  the  open  air, 
whatever  distinction  the  lights  of  the  proscenium 
had  shed.  This  group  was  made  up  of  the  "show 
girls." 


MARIE  143 

Frequently,  late  in  the  afternoon,  when  Felix  was 
calling  on  Marie  Sinjon,  these  young  women  ran 
in  for  half  an  hour's  gossip.  For  him,  there  was 
fascination  in  that  intercourse  through  which,  all  the 
while,  ran  a  faint  undertone  of  obliquity.  Yet  some- 
times, while  sitting  in  the  little  crimson  parlor,  where 
the  shades  were  drawn  against  the  dusk,  where  the 
saturnine  hairdresser  Miriam  was  silently  at  work, 
where  two  or  three  girls,  as  well  off  for  fine  feathers 
as  so  many  peacocks,  were  chattering  " shop-talk" 
at  once,  Felix  would  feel  a  mental  confusion,  an 
enervation  of  will  power,  a  moral  suffocation  that 
at  the  same  time  shamed  and  thrilled  him — as  if 
his  manhood  were  being  smothered  in  so  much  fla- 
grant femininity. 

When  these  visitors  had  gone,  Marie  Sinjon  would 
usually  give  him  in  some  way  to  understand  that  they 
distressed  her  by  their  conversation,  that  she  wished 
they  would  not  come  to  see  her.  "But  in  the  pro- 
fession," she  would  say, "  it's  a  bad  thing  to  make  ene- 
mies. One  has  to  own  to  nearly  every  sort  of  friend! " 

There  was  one  "show  girl"  whom  Felix  found 
different  from  the  rest.  This  was  a  gentle-faced, 
quiet  girl  named  Miss  Qewan.  Her  soft  voice,  with 
its  intimation  of  self-restraint,  her  modest  conduct, 
and  her  charitable  views  caused  Felix  to  wonder  why 
Marie  Sinjon  had  not  recognized  in  her  a  kindred 
soul  and  chosen  her  for  an  intimate  instead  of  Miss 
Llanelly. 

The  latter,  exuberantly  blooming,  bursting  with 
rude  vitality  and  high  spirits,  reminded  Felix  of  a 


I44  PREDESTINED 

splendid  peasant  whose  metropolitan  veneer  is  no 
disguise.  She  was  one  of  those  daughters  of  the 
people  who,  amid  the  meanest  surroundings,  had 
expanded  into  a  majestic  and  disquieting  beauty, 
her  vivid  allure  becoming  finally  too  superb  for  its 
environment,  and  making  escape  from  the  monoto- 
nous and  drudging  life  of  her  own  kind  too  easy. 
With  a  great  appetite  for  fine  clothes,  rich  food, 
scenes  of  excitement,  and  the  homage  of  men,  she 
had  "risen,"  as  she  would  have  said,  from  some 
shabby  home  that  now,  no  doubt,  she  could  scarcely 
see  in  its  exact  proportions,  while  looking  back 
through  all  the  vicissitudes  that  must  have  intervened. 

It  was  "Nora  Llanelly's  good  heart,"  Felix  was 
informed,  that  had  first  attracted  Marie  to  her. 

"A  kind  heart!  I  thought  myself  so  lucky  in 
finding  such  a  thing  that  I  was  glad  to  take  every- 
thing else  with  it.  You  don't  know,  perhaps,  how 
rare  good  hearts  are,  in  some  situations,  and  how 
terribly  one  can  long  for  them." 

"Poor  little  girl,  as  if  I  didn't!"  Whereupon  he 
assured  Marie  that  he  understood  her,  in  that  case 
as  in  all  others,  perfectly. 

And  yet,  he  reflected,  how  inaccurate  an  impres- 
sion of  her  he  had  got  at  first! 

On  that  first  night,  ill  at  ease  before  her  cold  scru- 
tiny, angry  at  her  deliberate  rudeness,  baffled,  finally, 
by  her  indifferent  surrender  to  his  kisses,  he  had 
believed  her  to  be  everything  that  she,  by  all  her 
subsequent  utterances  and  actions,  had  convinced 
him  she  was  struggling  not  to  become.  For  no  sooner 


MARIE  jgfc    145 

had  he  shown  her  his  impressible  disposition  than  she 
had  seemed,  in  a  burst  of  trustfulness,  determined  to 
reveal  to  him,  at  least,  her  true  self.  Little  by  little, 
with  touching  confidences  murmured  in  the  dusk, 
with  long  clear  looks  disclosing  untold  yearnings, 
with  low  sighs  at  the  thought  of  other  sorts  of  lives, 
she  wove  about  herself  a  fine,  transfiguring  fabric — 
a  veil  tinged  with  the  wan  hues  of  moral  beauty 
smothered  by  mischance,  a  veil  through  which,  as 
the  glamour  of  it  thickened,  she  appeared  to  the 
young  man  ever  the  more  remote,  in  instincts,  from 
those  round  her,  ever  a  rarer  and  more  estimable 
personality,  ever  worthier  of  pity,  of  comforting  ser- 
vices, and  of  respect. 

Many  a  time,  indeed,  he  told  her  how  much  he 
respected  her.  "For  did  he  not  know  the  golden 
heart  within  her,  that  had  been  forced  to  suffer  so 
much,  yet  still  retained,  as  if  by  a  miracle,  its  first 
fresh  beauty,  longing  for  the  heights  it  ought  to 
occupy  by  right,  and — if  there  was  justice  in  the 
universe — was  going  to  gain  some  day?  " 

"You  are  good,"  she  would  reply,  gently  laying 
her  cool  hand  on  his.  "  How  you  help  me :  how  you 
give  me  hope!  What  if  I  had  never  met  you?" 

And,  wrapped  in  a  secret  reverie,  she  would  gaze 
at  him  for  a  long  while,  her  green  eyes  seeming  not 
only  to  take  in  all  his  visible  features,  but  also  to 
explore  his  nature  to  its  depths. 

He  was,  no  doubt,  more  valuable  to  her  than  he 
suspected,  with  his  good  looks,  with  his  air  of  good 
breeding,  with  his  conversation  from  which  there  was 


146  PREDESTINED 

always  something  to  be  learned,  and  with  that  sug- 
gestion, which  he  continually  disseminated,  of  aristo- 
cratic antecedents  and  good  fortune.  There  are 
some  persons  of  whom  it  is  thought  instantly:  "He 
cannot  possibly  be  ill-born,  or  poor,  or  uncertain  of 
his  future."  It  is  toward  such  individuals,  with  their 
indescribable,  yet  convincing,  promise  of  great  things 
to  come,  that  those  turn  their  eyes  who  have  every- 
thing to  gain,  and  who  can  gain  nothing  save  through 
attachment  to  another. 

Marie,  by  spinning  pretty  tales  about  her  girl- 
hood— wherein  she  appeared  a  quaint,  delightful 
little  innocent — encouraged  Felix  to  talk  about  him- 
self,— to  tell  her  something  of  his  life,  his  work,  and 
his  ambitions. 

Quite  naturally  he  contrived  for  her  a  history  of 
himself  half  true,  half  false :  he  related  all  that  was 
flattering  in  his  career — anecdotes  of  his  family,  his 
luxurious  early  years,  his  travels,  the  wealthy  friends 
one  would  have  thought  his  boon  companions  still ;  he 
avoided  mentioning  his  loss  of  fortune  and  his  social 
downfall.  "His  work  in  the  newspaper  office — an 
uncongenial  apprenticeship,  perhaps — was  going  to 
be  of  great  value  to  him  some  day:  he  would  not 
regret  it."  Like  many  another  of  a  disposition  easily 
affected,  he  was  apt  to  enter  into  a  role  so  thoroughly 
that,  for  the  moment,  it  took  on  the  aspect  of  reality. 
So,  often,  while  uttering  some  such  rhodomontade 
about  his  journalistic  business,  for  an  instant  he 
would  see  himself  again  in  his  old  guise — a  hero, 
making  great  sacrifices  for  the  sake  of  literature. 


MARIE  147 

With  so  much  ability  for  self-delusion,  it  was  not 
strange  that  he  should  manage  to  delude  another. 
Crossing  their  wits,  they  played  a  well-matched  game 
of  fence,  he  as  dexterous  in  feint  of  reminiscences  as 
she,  and,  no  doubt,  giving  her  just  as  much  accurate 
information  as  she  returned.  All  these  lunges  and 
parries  may  have  ended  by  somewhat  dazzling  the 
eyes  of  both.  For  just  as  he  failed  to  perceive  that 
in  her  story  there  were  hiatuses  to  spare  between 
her  "life  at  home"  and  her  present  situation,  so, 
probably,  she  did  not  see  that  none  of  his  fashion- 
able adventures  were  in  actual  progress. 

The  part  which  his  pride  had  urged  upon  him 
proved  an  expensive  one  to  play. 

Fall  passed,  and  winter  came:  the  languishing  and 
sombre  nuances  of  these  seasons,  erstwhile  fraught 
with  explicit  charm,  were  this  year  but  vaguely  felt 
by  Felix.  He  who  had  been  wont  to  draw  keen 
pleasure  from  innumerable  tenuous  sources,  found 
his  old  interests  all  turning  stale,  his  old  visions 
losing  their  beauty,  then  suffering  eclipse.  Finally, 
he  threw  overboard  everything  except  his  idol  of  the 
moment,  Pleasure.  So,  without  ballast,  like  an  an- 
tique voyager  lured  on  by  siren  songs,  he  steered 
a  plunging  course  into  uncharted,  mist-filled  seas, 
where,  on  all  sides,  through  vapors  crawling  sinu- 
ously along  the  hollows  of  wine-colored  waves, 
appeared  white,  glistening  shapes,  leaning  forward 
with  fair  arms  outstretched,  and  uttering  cries  of 
provocation. 

At  such  a  pass,  there  is  no  rationalizing  force  so 


148  PREDESTINED 

swift  in  effect  as  an  awakening  to  poverty.  One 
afternoon,  while  sitting  alone  in  a  cafe,  Felix  made 
some  reckonings,  laboriously,  with  growing  conster- 
nation. He  stared  at  the  result  in  horror.  He  was 
at  the  end  of  his  resources,  and  in  debt. 

Dismally  looking  up,  at  last,  from  his  empty  glass, 
he  saw,  approaching  amid  the  cafe  tables,  Mr.  Noon, 
in  a  fawn-colored  overcoat  the  lapel  of  which  was 
decorated  with  a  white  carnation. 

The  new-comer  and  Felix,  because  of  their  senti- 
mental projects,  were  continually  being  thrown  to- 
gether. On  scores  of  evenings  spent  in  each  other's 
company,  they  had  enjoyed  to  the  full  that  disinte- 
gration of  reserve  which  alcohol  induces.  It  was  on 
the  rambling  discussions  of  those  hours,  the  involun- 
tary confessions,  the  maudlin  protestations  of  esteem, 
that  their  friendship  had  been  built. 

Recognizing  the  young  man,  Noon  smiled,  rumbled 
a  facetious  greeting,  sat  down,  and  smote  the  bell  on 
the  table  a  hearty  blow.  But  he  stopped  in  the 
midst  of  a  remark  to  stare  at  Felix's  face. 

"What's  wrong?"  he  asked. 

Then,  glancing  down,  he  saw,  on  the  table,  two  or 
three  envelopes  with  figures  scribbled  over  them. 
Felix  made  haste  to  pick  these  up. 

"I  feel  a  little  blue  this  afternoon,"  he  answered. 
"It  may  be  the  weather."  And  he  looked  out  of 
the  window  at  the  dusk,  powdered  with  snow-flakes, 
which  was  bringing  to  an  end  a  cheerless  day. 

Noon  gulped  his  highball,  lighted  a  long  cigar, 
inhaled  the  smoke,  and  rolled  his  eyes  toward  the 


MARIE  149 

gilded  ceiling,  all  the  while  wearing  furtively  an  ex- 
pression of  discomfort.  Twice  he  opened  his  mouth 
to  speak,  and  twice  checked  himself  with  a  forced 
cough. 

Felix,  meanwhile,  regarded  him  enviously.  For 
from  the  hands  of  this  burly  fellow,  this  sybarite  and 
Wall  Street  speculator  who  burned  the  candle  night 
and  day,  there  perpetually  rained  money.  Up  and 
down  Broadway,  wherever  lights  shone  brilliantly  by 
night,  he  was  referred  to  as  "a  prince."  At  first- 
nights  in  the  theatres,  at  midnight  supper  parties  in 
the  restaurants,  at  "stag"  dinners  where  actors  and 
their  managers  congregated  with  a  hilarious  swarm 
of  artists,  hotel  proprietors,  playwrights  and  politi- 
cians, he  was  a  familiar  figure.  Men  greeted  him 
jovially;  women  stared  at  him.  With  his  dark  eyes, 
gray  temples,  heavy  jowl,  big  shoulders,  and  resplen- 
dent clothes,  he  was  what  girls  of  Miss  Llanelly's 
way  of  thinking  called  "a  handsome  dog." 

Amid  his  amusements,  he  had  an  air  of  ponderous 
vigor,  of  somewhat  taurine  formidableness.  With 
his  devotion  to  elaborate  menus,  .strong  cigars,  and 
potent  alcoholic  drinks,  he  revealed  on  all  occasions 
his  unbridled  and  unappeasable  appetency.  But 
whenever  he  had  drunk  a  good  deal,  there  rose  from 
the  depths  of  this  heavy  roisterer's  nature — just  as 
strange,  unsuspected  objects  rise  sometimes  from  the 
bottom  of  a  stirred  up  pool — an  asstheticism  curi- 
ously delicate,  a  pleasure  in  sensuous,  brilliant,  and 
decadent  forms  of  art.  He  delighted  in  the  erotic 
dissonance  of  the  "Salome"  of  Strauss;  he  knew  by 


150  PREDESTINED 

book  the  "  Fleurs  du  Mai "  of  Baudelaire ;  he  was  en- 
raptured by  the  "Sataniques"  of  the  etcher  Rops. 
Invariably,  genius,  if,  instead  of  soaring,  it  clung  to 
earth,  found  the  way  straight  to  his  heart.  All  gifted 
men  who  had  conspicuous  vices  fascinated  him— 
"they  were  so  human." 

He  had  evidently  grown  fond  of  Felix.  On  relin- 
quishing his  first  attitude  toward  the  young  man— 
which,  in  a  less  stalwart  person,  would  have  seemed 
like  disquiet — he  had  assumed  an  eager  amity,  a 
kindliness  beyond  his  wont,  nearly  such  solicitude  as 
that  by  which  one  may  strive  to  neutralize  a  hidden 
remorse.  If  he  had  one  day  unwittingly  done  Felix 
an  injury  in  secret,  he  could  not  more  pains-takingly 
have  tried  to  make  amends. 

When  his  gaze  had  thoroughly  explored  the  gilded 
ceiling  of  the  cafe,  Noon  uttered,  in  an  artificial 
voice : 

"Have  you  seen  the  ticker  to-day?  It  was  fierce 
downtown.  I'm  nearly  used  up,  what  with  the  cus- 
tomers and  my  own  little  affairs — we  stock-brokers, 
you  know,  Mr.  Author,  wouldn't  make  much  if  we 
depended  on  our  commissions.  But  wait  till  to- 
morrow; there's  going  to  be  a  massacre.  I've  got  a 
tomahawk  up  my  sleeve,  myself.  It's  the  chance  of 
the  year,  for  a  man  who  has  some  spare  cash." 

Then,  as  if  at  a  chance  thought : 

"Why,  look  here,  Piers!  I  could  put  it  in  your  way, 
if  you  happened  to  have  a  fair  balance  at  the  bank!" 

A  bitter  laugh  escaped  Felix.  Then,  recollecting 
himself,  with  averted  eyes  he  answered: 


MARIE 

"That's  kind  of  you.  But  the  fact  is,  I'm  already 
over  my  quarterly  income.  The  old  wretch  who 
handles  the  estate  won't  ever  advance  a  penny." 

"Ah,  what  a  shame!  And  such  an  opportunity. 
Hold  on,  I'll  tell  you  what!" 

And,  slapping  a  check-book  upon  the  table,  Noon 
scribbled  a  check,  in  Felix's  favor,  for  ten  thousand 
dollars. 

"  To-morrow  morning  put  this  check  into  your 
bank.  Then  send  me  immediately,  by  messenger, 
another,  made  out  to  my  firm,  for  the  same  amount. 
I'll  put  it  through  my  office  as  an  order  from  you, 
for  a  certain  stock,  never  mind  which,  on  margin. 
Your  bother  ends  there;  the  rest  is  up  to  me.  No 
risk  to  you,  d'you  see,  and  you're  on  hand  when  the 
melon  is  cut." 

"But  why,"  faltered  Felix,  with  dry  lips,  "should 
you  do  this  for  me?" 

"Nonsense!"  growled  Noon,  while  banging  the 
table  bell. 

Five  days  later,  Felix  received,  from  the  brokerage 
firm  of  which  Noon  was  a  member,  a  check  for  three 
thousand  two  hundred  and  eighty-three  dollars  and 
fifty  cents. 

In  his  wild  outburst  of  thankfulness,  Felix  swore 
that  he  had  learned  his  lesson,  that  he  would  impose 
no  more  upon  the  providence  which,  with  awesome 
regularity,  was  manifest  in  his  dark  hours.  Here 
was  the  chance  for  a  fresh  start ;  these  talents,  falling 
out  of  the  blue  into  his  lap,  how  faithfully  he  would 
husband  and  augment  them!  Old  dreams  grew 


152  PREDESTINED 

bright;  optimism  and  a  sense  of  power  returned  to 
him.  He  felt  able  to  perform  Herculean  feats  of 
strength,  to  work  with  the  titanic  energy  and  fecun- 
dity of  another  Balzac,  to  achieve  fame  at  a  bound, 
to  become,  while  still  in  his  twenties,  a  colossal  figure 
— a  Jiterary  Napoleon.  Ah,  what  a  career  he  was 
now  free  to  enter  on! 

And  all  this  thanks  to  Noon! 

Before  Felix's  incoherent  thanks,  the  speculator 
seemed  to  flinch  a  little.  Then,  fixing  the  other  with 
his  eyes,  he  answered,  while  making  a  secretive 
gesture : 

"We'll  forget  it  now.  It  was  just  between  you  and 
me,  you  understand." 

"As  you  say."  Felix  drew  a  long  breath  of  relief. 
So  Marie  need  not  know  how  close  he  had  come  to  a 
smash-up ! 

His  elation  demanded  outlet ;  his  prosperity  tempted 
him  into  extravagances.  It  was  Christmas  week ;  he 
would  give  in  his  studio  a  Christmas  eve  party  of  the 
gayest  sort.  A  graceful  excuse  would  be  a  recent 
triumph  of  Marie's.  On  the  withdrawal  of  an  ac- 
tress of  small  importance  from  "The  Lost  Venus," 
she  had,  by  the  greatest  luck,  obtained  a  part  in 
which  she  spoke  a  dozen  lines. 

Felix  turned  his  rooms  upside  down,  bought  new 
hangings,  consulted  the  caterer  whose  employees  had 
waited  on  him  at  balls  in  other  days,  ordered  flowers 
and  holly,  ran  in  and  out  of  jewelry  shops  in  search 
of  supper  gifts,  then,  standing  under  the  skylight, 
with  his  dog  barking  round  him,  viewed  the  arrival 


MARIE  153 

of  many  hampers.  For  this  business  he  had  plenty 
of  time.  He  had  resigned  from  The  Evening  Sphere. 
He  was  too  much  occupied  by  great  plans,  now,  to 
"  think  of  writing  murder  stones." 

He  invited  a  dozen  guests,  glowing  with  pleasure  at 
the  thought  of  having  again  so  many  friends.  Had 
he  forgotten  any  ?  On  Christmas  eve,  at  dusk,  while 
passing  the  Metropolitan  Opera  House,  he  saw 
stretched  across  the  billboards  Mme.  Regne  Lod- 
brok's  name. 

Paul  Pavin !  Surely  he  had  returned  by  this  time  ? 
Felix  hurried  to  the  portrait-painter's  old  studio. 

"Yes,  he  had  returned;  he  was  even  in  the  build- 
ing, on  the  top  floor  west." 

It  was  the  Frenchman's  hour  for  relaxation.  He 
was  at  home,  alone,  stretched  out  on  one  of  the  faded 
couches  like  a  huge  Viking,  ruddy  as  ever,  his  spread- 
ing, golden  beard  aglimmer. 

He  rose  slowly  to  his  feet,  with  a  bewildered  look. 

"Who  is  it?"  he  cried,  in  French.  Then  he  low- 
ered his  eyebrows  and,  with  a  great  laugh,  strode 
forward. 

"Mon  Dieu,  it  is  that  Felix!  What  a  strange 
thing!  For  a  moment,  while  you  stood  in  the 
shadows,  I  thought  I  don't  know  what.  At  least, 
the  present  seemed  to  melt  away.  But  what  you 
reminded  me  of,  I  cannot  just  put  the  finger  on. 
How  curious!" 

He  scrutinized  Felix  in  perplexity.  Soon  he 
shrugged  his  shoulders,  smiled,  and  clapped  his 
heavy  hands  upon  the  other's  arms. 


154  PREDESTINED 

"Why  did  you  disappear,  answer  me  that,  sir! 
It  was  unkind  of  you:  those  smoky  twilights  were 
beginning  to  make  me  young  again.  But  there, 
I  forgive  you.  You  come  back  in  a  good  hour. 
Noel  rings  you  in." 

What  a  kind  heart  was  here!  thought  Felix. 

They  sat  down  together.  Without  asking  a  single 
disconcerting  question,  Pavin  talked  about  his  own 
life  of  the  last  six  months.  He  had  been  in  Paris, 
Vienna,  and  St.  Petersburg;  he  was  going  soon  to 
Washington  to  portray  the  President;  he  had  done 
several  pictures,  and  had  sold  one  to  the  French 
government.  Near  his  chair,  there  was  a  large 
canvas,  on  an  easel,  turned  to  the  wall. 

Felix  remembered  the  portrait  of  Eileen  Tambor- 
layne,  her  sittings  in  Pavin's  studio,  the  evenings 
when  he  had  called  there  for  her,  to  find  her,  some- 
times, scarcely  ready  to  set  out  with  him,  though 
daylight  had  long  since  faded. 

Now,  able  to  view  that  whole  epoch  in  perspective, 
he  interpreted  with  startling  clearness  many  minute 
circumstances  lost  on  him  before. 

"How  soft  I  was!" 

He  looked  at  Pavin  intently,  full  of  conjectures, 
but  without  resentment.  One  could  not,  at  this  late 
day,  hold  such  feelings  toward  a  splendid  celebrity 
who  permitted  an  obscure  young  man  to  call  him 
friend.  Felix  carried  away  the  Frenchman's  promise 
to  "look  in  round  midnight"  as  if  it  were  a  priceless 
boon.  His  supper-party  was  going  to  be  distin- 
guished as  well  as  gay. 


MARIE  155 

Returning  home,  he  found  everything  in  readiness. 
The  florist  had  gone;  the  caterer's  men  had  made 
their  preparations;  the  caretaker  was  sweeping  the 
hallway. 

The  studio  had  been  stripped  of  nearly  all  its 
furniture.  The  four  walls  were  banked  to  the  sky- 
light with  box-trees  and  holly-bushes.  All  the  glossy 
foliage  was  powdered  with  fine  tinsel.  The  circular 
table,  with  twelve  chairs  ranged  round  it,  laden  with 
china  and  wine-glasses,  nearly  hidden  by  masses  of 
mistletoe  and  deep-red  roses,  seemed  laid  in  the  hol- 
low of  some  little  glen  where  snow  had  just  fallen. 

Felix  turned  on  all  the  lights.  Producing  some 
chopped  ice  from  a  waiter,  he  mixed  himself  a  couple 
of  cocktails.  Then  he  lighted  a  cigarette,  picked  up 
The  Evening  Sphere  and,  with  a  sigh  of  satisfaction, 
sat  down  beside  the  refulgent  table,  to  kill  time. 

On  the  second  page  of  the  newspaper  he  read : 

"Paris,  December  24.  Mrs.  James  Corrochie 
Ferrol,  of  New  York,  died  suddenly  to-day,  at  the 
Hotel  Ritz,  of  heart  failure.  ..." 

Felix  sat  motionless,  intent  on  this  catastrophe.  He 
imagined  the  scene  which  was  doubtless  being  en- 
acted at  the  moment,  thousands  of  miles  away:  in  an 
alcove  heavy  with  shadows,  the  daughter  sitting  beside 
the  body  of  the  mother,  while,  throughout  the  French 
city,  church  bells  were  uttering  Christmas  chimes. 

But  he  was  unable  to  feel  the  poignancy  of  that 
picture.  He  groped  in  his  heart  for  the  appropriate 
emotions.  He  could  not  find  them.  They  had  been 
obliterated  ? 


CHAPTER  VIII 

HALF  of  Felix's  guests,  with  a  nonchalance  engen- 
dered of  long  dinners  and  hours  spent  in  cafes, 
brought  with  them  to  the  supper-party  their  com- 
panions of  the  earlier  evening.  In  the  studio,  amid  a 
confusion  of  large  coiffures  and  close-trimmed  heads, 
appeared  on  all  sides  unfamiliar  faces.  "Show 
girls,"  radiant  in  light-colored  dresses,  coolly  intro- 
duced strange  young  men  who  apologized  unsteadily 
for  intruding.  Some  one  dragged  in  the  tenor  of 
"The  Lost  Venus,"  who  had  managed  to  give  his 
wife  the  slip  at  the  stage  door.  Noon  produced  no 
less  a  personage  than  Montmorrissy,  the  theatrical 
manager;  and,  as  if  this  were  not  enough,  Pavin 
arrived  with  another  unexpected  celebrity — Oliver 
Corquill,  the  novelist.  These  two  had  been  dining 
at  the  same  house  on  Fifth  Avenue,  and  Corquill, 
remembering  Felix  perfectly,  had  consented — out  of 
curiosity,  perhaps — to  "look  in  for  a  moment." 

Felix  soon  perceived  that  the  writer's  eye  was  on 
him  constantly.  If  he  had  played  the  complaisant 
host  well  enough  before,  forthwith  he  surpassed  him- 
self. He  gave  confidence  to  dismayed  waiters,  made 
persons  whom  he  had  never  seen  before  laugh  out- 
right at  the  whimsical  good  nature  of  his  greetings, 

and  drank  a  cocktail  with  nearly  every  group  of  new 

156 


MARIE  157 

arrivals.  Twenty-one  persons  wedged  themselves 
round  the  table,  to  which  a  dozen  had  been  invited, 
in  such  good  fellowship  that  several  young  women 
agreed  to  share  their  plates  with  total  strangers. 
For  a  time  it  was  thought  that  Montmorrissy  would 
have  to  take  Marie's  quiet  friend,  Miss  Qewan,  on ' 
his  knee. 

With  the  appearance  of  the  champagne,  the  assem- 
bly, for  the  most  part  already  stimulated,  became 
hilarious — as  if  the  mere  sight  of  those  large  bottles 
wrapped  in  napkins  were  exhilarating.  The  con- 
tinuous vocal  din,  pierced  by  shrill  laughter,  Felix 
presently  imagined  to  be  like  the  babble  of  some 
loose,  pagan  ritual  of  antiquity;  and  in  the  solemn 
countenances  of  the  waiters,  moving  to  and  fro  above 
the  beaming  faces  of  the  guests,  the  young  man 
found,  to  his  diversion,  something  sacerdotal,  as  if 
there  were  ministering  here  a  bizarre  priesthood  of 
the  vine. 

"So,  surely,  the  creatures  of  Dionysos  in  secret 
glens,"  he  thought.  "Why,  for  that  matter,  does 
not  time  turn  back  to-night:  have  we  not  here  the 
most  charming  maenads,  and  as  many  aegipans,  and 
no  doubt  a  satyr  or  two — the  whole  rout — besides 
the  proper  woodland  setting?  Beat,  drums;  blow,, 
pipes;  we'll  swing  the  leopard  skins  again!  What 
is  it  blotches  the  recesses  of  the  forest  with  red  fires  ? 
The  god's  afoot;  the  green  eyes  of  his  lynxes  come 
flickering  through  bracken;  the  torchlight  wavers 
nearer  over  the  convolutions  of  great  branches — 
louder  the  corybantes'  drums;  frenzy  bursts  round 


i$8  PREDESTINED 

about :  the  world's  aflame,  and  writhing  in  a  fanatical 
ecstasy.  Join  in!  Who  knows  the  ancient  cry? 
Evoe!  Sabo'i!"  And,  shivering  with  delight  at  the 
pictures  of  primeval  orgies  which  those  words  evoked, 
he  repeated,  under  his  breath: 

"Evoe!    Saboi!" 

"Felix,  what  are  you  muttering?"  exclaimed 
Marie,  who,  in  a  new  dress  of  old-rose  silk,  her  tawny 
hair  bound  with  a  fillet  of  black  velvet,  sat  beside 
him. 

He  raised  his  head.  As  he  gazed  round  at  his 
friends,  with  the  sensations  of  one  returning  from 
afar,  loneliness  chilled  his  heart.  Three  times  a 
waiter  had  to  whisper  to  him  that  "a  party  wished 
to  see  him  in  the  hallway." 

At  the  end  of  the  hallway,  Felix  found  a  sad-faced 
little  woman,  plainly  dressed,  standing  in  a  diffident 
attitude,  and  staring  at  him  with  large,  lustrous  eyes. 

She  was  evidently  taken  aback  by  this  apparition 
of  a  fine,  flushed  young  man  in  evening  dress,  with 
valuable  pearls  in  the  embroidered  bosom  of  his 
shirt,  and  a  gold  fob  glittering  on  his  hip.  Protesting 
timidly  that  "he  was  not  the  gentleman  she  had 
expected  to  see,"  she  inquired  for  the  consumptive 
artist  from  whom  Felix  had  rented  the  studio. 

"But  he  has  not  lived  in  New  York  for  over  a 
year!"  the  young  man  informed  her. 

Her  small,  pale  face,  the  face  of  a  woman  of  thirty, 
slowly  expressed  weariness  and  despair. 

"Thank  you  very  much,  sir,"  she  said,  listlessly- 
then  turned  toward  the  staircase. 


MARIE 

Through  the  half-open  doorway  of  the  studio  came 
voices  of  women  raised  in  a  waltz-song  from  "The 
Lost  Venus."  Half-way  down  the  first  flight  of  steps, 
the  stranger  paused  to  listen,  her  white  face  upturned 
and  seeming  to  float  mysteriously  midst  the  shadows 
of  the  staircase  well,  wherein  her  sombrely  clothed 
shape  was  blotted  out.  Presently,  at  the  outer  cor- 
ners of  her  lustrous  eyes  appeared  two  tears,  ready 
to  roll  down  her  cheeks. 

Felix,  distressed,  leaned  over  the  balustrade. 

"You  are  in  trouble.  Surely  I  can  help  you  in 
some  way?  At  least,  let  me  try  to  find  your  friend'* 
address." 

She  shook  her  head,  and  the  two  tears  slid  quickly, 
glistening,  down  her  face.  Then,  like  a  child  that 
knows  whom  to  confide  in: 

"He  was  my  husband's  friend.  I  thought  perhaps 
he  could  tell  me  where  my  husband  is.  He's  left 
me  again,  this  month  past,  on  one  of  his  lovely  sprees. 
But  I  thought  Christmas  eve  might  bring  him  home, 
or  that  I  might  find  him!" 

Leaning  against  the  rail,  hiding  her  face,  she 
sobbed : 

"Oh,  if  I  hadn't  come  here  to-night,  and  heard 
people  having  a  good  time!" 

Suddenly,  the  stranger  flashed  at  Felix  a  horror- 
stricken  look,  cried,  in  an  agitated  voice:  "What  can 
you  think  of  me!"  and  ran  down  the  stairs. 

"Stop!"  he  called  after  her.  He  started  in  pur- 
suit. But  he  had  not  reached  the  second  floor,  when 
he  heard  the  street  door  slam. 


160  PREDESTINED 

As  he  re-entered  the  studio,  every  one  stopped 
talking  to  look  at  him.  Marie's  green  eyes  seemed 
to  plunge  into  his  brain. 

When  he  had  recounted  his  experience  to  her,  she 
whispered,  in  a  voice  trembling  with  anger: 

"I  should  think,  my  dear,  that  you  could  manage 
a  little  more  cleverly — at  least  so  that  twenty  people 
couldn't  have  the  laugh  on  me!" 

He  protested  in  bewilderment.  As  two  or  three 
girls  were,  indeed,  watching  them  with  sweet,  mali- 
cious smiles,  Marie  turned  to  Noon,  who  sat  the  other 
side  of  her. 

The  speculator,  his  massive  face  shining,  had 
reached  the  aesthetic  stage  of  his  intoxication.  With 
half -shut  eyes,  he  was  muttering: 

"The  most  subtle  epicureanism  consists  in  chaste 
pursuits  in  the  midst  of  frenzy."  And,  amid  the 
uproar  of  advanced  revelry,  he  began  to  intone,  in 
his  bull's  voice,  an  old  Latin  hymn  in  which  the  first 
syllable  of  every  line  resembled  a  note  of  the  musical 
scale.  At  a  remark  of  Marie's,  he  was  good  enough 
to  leave  off  shouting.  And  presently  Felix,  to  his 
amazement,  heard  the  two  discussing — she  as  intel- 
ligently, it  appeared,  as  Noon — the  principles  of  the 
Gregorian  chant. 

Good  heavens,  the  curious  scraps  of  knowledge 
that  every  little  while  he  was  discovering  in  her! 
For  the  hundredth  time,  he  pictured  for  himself  a 
scene  that  many  an  indefinite  " confession"  of  hers 
had  helped  him  to  construct:  an  old,  placid  home- 
stead somewhere,  in  which,  part  of  a  gentle  family 


MARIE  161 

circle — how  pitiful,  the  loss  of  it — she  had  been  culti- 
vated for  far  different  ends. 

Nora  Llanelly,  on  his  other  hand,  leaning  against 
his  shoulder,  was  laughing  softly  at  what  had  just 
amazed  him.  Her  exuberant  form  was  laced  into 
a  light -green  dress;  her  cheeks  were  bright  with 
pulsing  blood;  her  lips  glowed  vividly;  her  eyes 
shone  with  unusual  brilliancy.  She  was  a  disturb- 
ing beauty  at  close  quarters. 

But  she  seemed  moved  by  no  feeling  save  generous 
admiration  for  Marie,  who  was  meeting  Noon's  jargon 
so  nearly  on  an  equal  footing. 

"Listen  to  her,"  whispered  Nora,  somewhat  un- 
steadily. "  Isn't  she  the  wonderful  kid  ?  Would  you 
ever  think  she  started  life  as  she  did — faith,  as  both  of 
us  did?  We  grew  up  in  the  same  block,  you  know." 

"You  and  she!  I  thought  you  had  known  each 
other  only  a  little  while!" 

"That's  a  good  one!"  She  laughed  in  his  face. 
"Why,  I've  known  her  all  my  life." 

Carried  away,  Felix  thought,  by  something  analo- 
gous to  the  pride  of  a  "self-made  man"  recounting 
circumstances  of  his  humble  origin,  she  began,  gig- 
gling, to  relate  what  she  called  "comical"  reminis- 
cences of  her  early  youth,  in  which  Marie  had  a 
part.  And  there  rose  before  the  young  man  views 
of  mean  city  streets  on  summer  nights,  lined  with 
flat-houses  all  open  windows  and  rusty  fire-escapes, 
swarming  with  slattern  figures  lightly  clad — views 
midst  which  two  immature  girls  of  the  people,  untidy 
in  cheap  clothes,  thin  from  malnutrition,  but  full  of 


1 62  PREDESTINED 

the  feverish  energy  of  curiosity,  moved  seeking  their 
first  taste  of  puerile  romance,  mischief,  consterna- 
tion, deception,  and  distorted  ambition. 

A  bolt  from  the  blue — that  disclosure! 

When,  in  the  smoky  studio,  revelry  had  reached  its 
height  and  failed  from  sheer  exhaustion;  when  the 
blue  glimmer  of  the  Christmas  dawn,  creeping  through 
the  skylight,  had  sent  all  the  jaded  roisterers  dragging 
off  to  rest;  when,  for  Felix,  a  heavy  sleep  had  given 
place  to  all  the  aches  and  nauseas  of  resuscitation, 
there  contested  for  the  young  man's  notice,  with  his 
bodily  pain,  an  agonizing  query.  This  girl  of  faint 
flushes  and  translucent  tissues,  this  creature  of  ob- 
scure, ingratiating  charms,  so  adroit  in  simulation  of 
refinement — where  had  she  acquired  the  qualities 
that  made  her  seem  superior  to  her  surroundings? 
In  what  long-attended  schools,  from  what  deeply 
interested  teachers,  at  whose  patient,  fondling  hands? 
He  had  now,  for  the  first  time,  visions  of  predecessors 
more  cultivated,  brilliant,  and  amiable,  than  he. 
Such  thoughts  were  scarcely  to  be  borne. 

All  the  while,  she  must  have  been  laughing  at  him 
for  his  gullibility.  To  the  devil  with  such  deceit! 

Ah,  but  the  long,  perfumed  hours! 

It  needed  no  more  than  this  to  show  him  how 
closely  the  coils  of  tender  habit  had  enwrapped  him. 
In  that  play  which  he  had  begun,  for  diversion's  sake, 
with  tongue  in  cheek,  he  could  now  pull  a  tragic 
enough  grimace.  Forthwith,  he  began  to  suffer  all 
the  anguishes  inevitable  in  a  passion  fashioned  on 
such  a  pattern  and  of  such  materials. 


MARIE  163 

The  first  explosion  immediately  followed  their  next 
meeting;  it  was  she,  with  an  angry  reference  to  his 
"mysterious"  visitor  of  the  supper-party,  who  un- 
wittingly fired  the  train. 

"I  can  guess  who  it  was,  too!  I  should  have 
thought,  if  words  mean  anything,  you  would  have 
given  that  up." 

"I  don't  understand  you." 

"Ah,"  she  retorted,  "you  think  I  haven't  heard! 
About  you  and  a  woman  with  black  hair — oh,  a  very 
fashionable-looking  woman — whom  you  used  to  be 
seen  with  everywhere.  Deny  it  if  you  can!" 

"That  belongs  to  the  past,"  he  answered,  wincing. 
Then,  in  a  gust  of  rage: 

"And  your  past!  Have  I  ever  taunted  you  with 
it?"  And  his  volley  of  recriminations,  brutally  ac- 
curate, thanks  to  Nora  Llanelly,  made  her  give  back 
as  if  he  had  showered  her  with  so  many  blows. 

She  sank  upon  the  couch,  and  buried  her  face  amid 
the  pillows.  Finally,  there  came  to  his  ears,  between 
sobs,  in  muffled  tones,  her  self-justification: 

"What  wonder  if  a  loving  woman  should  strive  to 
appear  worthier  than  she  was  ?  And  the  more  recent 
past — how  she  hated  it,  how  she  had  hoped  to  forget 
it  now!  But  no:  women  were  never  forgiven,  even 
when,  in  their  own  souls,  they  felt  themselves  clarified 
by  love.  Fond,  foolish,  pitiable  dreams  of  one  who 
had  never  loved  before!  She  had  thought  to  find  in 
him  a  unique  nobility,  a  nature  rising  above  the 
heartless  judgment  of  the  world!" 

Thus,  in  effect,  her  plaint.    Attacked  at  his  most 


1 64  PREDESTINED 

vulnerable  points,  seized,  at  sight  of  so  much  agita- 
tion, with  an  overpowering  physical  excitement,  he 
threw  himself  down  beside  the  couch,  and  took  her 
in  his  arms.  That  was  a  bitter-sweet,  incoherent 
quarter  of  an  hour,  wherein  sobs  gradually  ceased, 
and  tears  were  kissed  away,  and  one,  at  least,  groping 
with  his  senses  instead  of  with  his  logic,  had  no  clear 
understanding  how  all  had  been  ostensibly  made 
right  once  more.  In  such  exhaustion  as  ensues  from 
self-abandonment,  they  drew  themselves  slowly  back 
toward  sanity  by  feeble  and  pathetic  discourse. 
She  faltered: 

"If  you  only  knew  the  dreams  I've  had!  To 
escape  all  this,  and  all  that's  past,  with  you — never 
to  see  it,  or  think  of  it,  again!  A  place  far  away 
in  the  country,  so  quiet,  so  peaceful,  where  I  could 
be  happy  with  you,  where  you  could  do  those  great 
things  you  are  planning,  and  have  dogs,  and  horses, 
and  old  friends  round  you." 

This  tableau  abruptly  gave  him  pause:  it  was  ar- 
ranged decidedly  in  an  atmosphere  of  domesticity. 
A  host  of  wistful  ambiguities  which  she  had  uttered 
in  the  past  seemed  now  made  plain. 

Still,  with  her  arms  round  him  and  her  breath  upon 
his  cheek,  he  could  not  see,  in  the  vague  portents  that 
were  gathering,  sufficient  incongruity  to  alarm  him. 
All  sorts  of  extravagance,  if  contemplated  from  a 
sentimental  view-point,  presently  grow  reasonable. 

From  that  scene  Felix  emerged,  to  his  subsequent 
surprise,  as  poor  in  information  as  before:  Marie,  it 
appeared,  while  admitting  everything  he  had  taxed 


MARIE  165 

her  with,  had  neglected  to  offer  further  particulars. 
Moreover,  he  had  promised  "never  to  bring  up  the 
hateful  past  again." 

What,  then,  had  he  accomplished?  He  had  been 
the  means  of  breaking  the  friendship  between  Marie 
and  Nora  Llanelly,  who,  after  a  violent  quarrel,  had 
parted  company  "forever." 

This  was  the  easier  since  Nora — who  had  first  met 
Noon  while  rehearsing  for  "The  Lost  Venus" —  be- 
gan the  year  by  informing  every  one,  while  waving 
plump  hands  which  glittered  with  some  new  rings, 
that  she  was  "tired  of  acting."  She  abandoned  the 
stage.  Undecided  whether  to  make  a  little  journey 
of  recuperation  to  Monte  Carlo  or  to  Bermuda,  she 
favored  Monte  Carlo,  since  Paris,  with  its  dress- 
makers, was,  she  understood,  on  the  way.  However, 
she  remained  in  New  York,  never  far  from  the  racket 
of  theatres  and  night  restaurants,  and  regularly  every 
fair  Sunday  afternoon  appeared  on  the  East  Drive  in 
Central  Park,  reclining  in  a  hired  victoria,  elabo- 
rately dressed,  brilliant  of  complexion,  but  very  prim 
in  mien,  and  with  an  unhappy  eye  on  the  coachman 
when  his  hat  was  cocked  too  far  over  his  ear. 

Marie  could  presently  afford  to  smile  at  Nora  in 
her  elegant  leisure. 

Since  other  of  her  unconfessed  ambitions  were  not 
easy  of  immediate  fulfilment,  Marie,  who  appeared 
to  favor  the  maxim  that  inaction  equalled  retro- 
gression, set  all  her  energies  to  the  feat  of  climbing 
the  theatrical  ladder. 

One  night  in  February,  favored  by  that  cool  au- 


1 66  PREDESTINED 

dacity  which  Felix  had  observed  in  her  at  the  first, 
without  warning  she  played  her  trifling  role  at  the 
Trocadero  Theatre  in  mimicry  of  a  well-known  tragic 
actress.  The  audience,  at  once  relishing  the  mali- 
cious travesty,  stirred  in  amusement,  burst  into  laugh- 
ter, and,  as  she  trailed  her  skirts  toward  the  wings, 
sent  after  her  a  clatter  of  applause.  In  the  second 
act,  when,  from  the  auditorium,  a  general  chuckle 
greeted  her  reappearance,  her  effrontery  was  par- 
doned by  Montmorrissy.  Within  a  week,  that  shrewd 
personage  was  himself  drilling  her  in  an  amplified 
version  of  her  part ;  in  March  he  permitted  her  to  try 
her  voice  in  an  eccentric  trio ;  and  in  April  he  prom- 
ised her  the  soubrette's  role  in  his  forthcoming  sum- 
mer review,  "The  Silly  Season."  By  his  confession, 
he  was  nearly  as  much  astonished  at  Marie's  per- 
formance as  was  Felix. 

The  latter,  from  wavering  between  pride  and  an 
intuitive  uneasiness,  ended  by  wishing  that  she  had 
never  "made  her  hit." 

Everything  about  Marie  was  now  in  process  of 
change. 

She  moved  from  West  Forty-eighth  Street  to  a 
larger  hotel  on  Lincoln  Square,  where,  in  three  rooms, 
she  supplemented  the  furniture,  with  a  hired  piano, 
some  "Turkish"  chairs,  a  davenport,  and  fresh  por- 
tieres of  pale-green  velours.  Her  door  was  opened 
by  a  small,  lax-mouthed  mulatto  woman,  Mattie  by 
name,  whom  she  had  taken  as  maid. 

Amid  her  altering  surroundings,  Marie  herself 
sometimes  presented  to  Felix,  when  he  chanced  on 


MARIE  167 

her  unexpectedly,  a  new  presence.  Her  figure — in 
dresses  of  the  prevailing,  so-called  "Empire,"  style- 
attained  so  extraordinary  a  slimness  that  it  resembled 
the  attenuated  models  in  fashion  journals.  One 
could  not  now,  however,  any  more  than  formerly, 
find  a  detail  in  her  appearance  that  was  in  bad  taste. 
"Refinement"  was  evidently  more  than  ever  the 
shibboleth  with  her;  and  she  did  not  even  neglect  to 
note  every  week,  while  poring  over  the  "society" 
photographs  in  The  Sunday  Era,  how  the  coiffures  of 
rich  women  of  distinction  were  arranged.  Her  own 
hair  appeared  to  have  turned  a  darker  auburn;  her 
eyebrows  and  lashes,  which,  on  account  of  their  light 
hue,  had  made  her  eyes  too  pale,  no  longer  seemed 
at  fault. 

Perhaps  it  was  for  this  reason  that  her  charms 
gained  emphasis.  She  was  more  often  stared  at  on 
the  street.  Men  followed  her  about. 

Then,  too,  in  restaurants,  at  every  other  table 
there  now  seemed  to  be  some  old  friend  that  had 
found  his  memory,  moved  by  that  amiability  felt 
toward  persons  who,  by  their  successes,  make  even 
mere  acquaintance  with  them  valuable.  Felix  was 
disgusted  and  angered  by  the  polite  grins  of  strange 
men  who  saluted  her.  Into  many  of  these  faces  he 
looked  with  sickening  conjectures. 

Her  time  was  now  much  occupied.  She  had  re- 
hearsals to  attend,  appointments  to  keep  at  cos- 
turner's  and  shoemaker's;  her  dresses  required 
interminable  fittings;  the  stupidity  of  wig-makers 
necessitated  unexpected  absences  from  home;  Mont- 


1 68  PREDESTINED 

morrissy  "  wanted  to  see  her  about  her  new  part." 
Felix's  afternoon  hour  with  Marie  had  frequently  to 
be  abandoned. 

The  young  man  accepted  everything  in  silence, 
with  a  heavy  heart.  She  seemed,  as  she  became 
more  valuable  in  all  ways,  to  be  slipping  gradually 
from  him. 

Sometimes  Marie,  showering  his  gloomy  face  with 
kisses,  would  beseech  him  to  be  reasonable.  One 
evening,  coming  home  in  the  twilight  to  find  him 
waiting  at  a  front  window,  she  inquired,  out  of 
patience : 

"Where  is  Mattie?  Why  do  you  stare  at  me  that 
way?  No  doubt  you  think  I've  been  enjoying  my- 
self, rehearsing  the  same  song  fifty  times  in  a  dirty 
hall!  Is  it  my  fault  if  I'm  always  busy  now?" 
Then  her  eyes  softened;  she  embraced  him,  and 
murmured : 

"Some  day,  perhaps,  it  won't  be  so?" 

He  had  told  her  long  since,  when  driven  into  a 
corner  by  her  gentle  inquiries,  that  "his  family  estate 
was  to  be  turned  over  to  him  when  he  was  thirty." 

Unresponsive  to  her  caress,  he  demanded,  sud- 
denly : 

"Who  brought  you  home  in  the  hansom?" 

While  slowly  lifting  her  large  hat  off  her  curls,  she 
mumbled  indifferently,  through  a  sheaf  of  hat -pins: 

"Billy  Noon.  I  met  him  on  the  street;  he  was 
kind  enough  to  give  me  a  lift." 

"Your  quarrel  with  Nora  doesn't  include  him, 
then?" 


MARIE  169 

"Why  should  it?" 

As  always  when  irritated,  Felix  had  recourse  to  a 
cigarette.  Marie  also  took  one  from  his  gold  case. 
She  was  trying  to  inure  herself  to  smoking,  since  it 
had  become  so  fashionable  an  accomplishment. 

"Noon  isn't  well,"  she  remarked.  "You've  seen 
him  lately?  He's  got  a  nervous  habit  of  twitching 
back  his  head." 

Felix  shrugged  his  shoulders.  Whenever,  now- 
adays, he  met  the  speculator — who  invariably  had 
something  flattering  to  say  about  Marie — it  irked 
him  to  maintain  the  warm  manner  imposed  upon 
him  by  his  debt  of  gratitude. 

"His  condition  isn't  remarkable,"  Felix  answered, 
shortly.  "His  father  died  of  locomotor  ataxia.  Noon 
had  St.  Vitus's  dance  when  a  boy.  He  may  expect 
nearly  anything  before  he's  through."  This  thought 
almost  pleased  the  young  man. 

"Do  you  believe  that  sort  of  stuff?  His  trouble  is 
just  that  he  leads  too  irregular  a  life.  Do  you  know, 
dear,  I  think  you  might  almost  take  a  little  warning 
from  him?" 

Indeed,  during  the  past  half  year  Felix  had  been 
following  closely  in  Noon's  footsteps. 

His  new  environment,  with  all  its  provocations  of 
opportunity  and  example,  was  constituted  as  if  for 
the  very  purpose  of  unbalancing  a  nature  not  able  to 
resist  the  call  of  pleasure.  Felix,  always  immoderate 
in  exhilarative  pursuits,  soon  reached  a  stage  where 
excitement  was  his  common  habit.  He  was  finally 
at  a  pass  where  artificial  stimulation  had  become 


170  PREDESTINED 

so  large  a  feature  of  his  existence  that  he  was  lost 
without  it. 

Occasionally,  he  recalled  with  surprise  times  not 
long  past  when,  though  living  in  all  satisfaction,  he 
had  not  smoked  incessantly,  or  felt  at  sight  of  liquors 
an  almost  automatic  impulse  to  sample  them.  Scru- 
tinizing certain  men,  he  would  marvel  at  their  uncon- 
scious continence.  One  cigar,  one  drink — these  fin- 
ished, they  seemed  to  desire  no  more!  With  him, 
one  cigar,  one  drink,  were  but  the  incitement. 

In  return  for  his  debility  of  mornings,  he  experi' 
enced  at  night — so  long  as  his  potations  did  not 
stupefy  him — a  superb  deliverance  from  all  restraint 
— the  sloughing,  as  it  were,  of  a  cumbrous  mental 
envelope.  What  ravishing  emotional  expansions  did 
he  not  then  enjoy !  What  delicate  perceptions  did  he 
not  then  attain!  How  prodigally  the  world  revealed 
its  treasuries  of  opportunity!  How  richly  life  was 
englamoured  with  romance! 

At  those  moments,  his  relations  with  Marie  were 
clothed  in  exquisite  refinements.  Now  and  then, 
returning  toward  morning  to  his  rooms,  he  sat  down 
at  his  writing-table — his  dog  Pat,  freshly  awakened, 
yawning  against  his  knee — and  poured  out  to  her  on 
paper  such  gossamer  fancies  as  a  troubadour,  all 
spiritual  love,  might  dedicate  to  some  white  queen. 
He  could  never  tease  Marie  into  telling  him  where 
she  kept  his  letters. 

But  perhaps,  while  wandering  home  in  the  small 
hours,  he  found  his  intoxication  waning  on  the  way. 
Then,  in  empty  streets  full  of  the  freshness  that  fills 


MARIE  171 

a  city  before  dawn,  he  gloomed  upon  a  time  when 
contact  with  immaculate  nature  had  engendered  no 
remorse. 

Late  one  night,  his  feet  brought  him  before  the  Fer- 
rol  house.  Doors  and  windows  were  boarded  over. 
A  sign  proclaimed  the  place  for  sale.  From  the  attic 
shone  a  light;  old  Joseph  was  still  there,  perhaps? 

Ah,  the  sunny  days  of  boyhood,  the  clarity  of  early 
youth,  the  countryside,  and  friends  in  whose  lives 
there  was  no  fault ! 

Was  he  forgotten?  No,  surely  not  forgotten,  but 
remembered  with  contempt. 

Rage  surged  through  him — rage  at  himself,  at 
everything,  at  Nina.  Making  a  threatening  gesture, 
he  ejaculated: 

"I'll  show  her,  yet!" 

Some  day,  in  contemplating  his  fame  she  would  be 
forced,  to  his  revenge,  into  unreasoning  regret! 

He  had  continually  a  conviction  of  great  years  to 
ensue.  A  nebular  theory  of  his — wherein  he  found 
no  small  excuse  for  present  laxity — was  that  there 
would  rise,  at  last,  from  the  ferment  of  his  emotional 
and  physical  excesses,  an  invaluable  essence  of  ex- 
perience. "A  great  artist,"  he  had  read  somewhere, 
in  effect,  "must  himself  have  known  everything  that 
he  transcribes."  Felix- — who  had  also  read  Schopen- 
hauer— considered  that  he  showed  at  least  one  in- 
stinct of  genius  in  this  aspiration :  to  express,  finally, 
not  what  he  had  accumulated  in  his  brain  of  the  ex- 
periences of  others,  but  the  countless  conceptions  of 
that  unique  personality  he  felt  himself,  in  all  deep 


172  PREDESTINED 

moments,  to  be.  To  add  to  the  world's  recorded 
knowledge  of  humanity  something  unprecedented, 
and  not  only  to  the  world  of  his  time,  but  also- 
working  with  an  art  so  sound  as  to  defy  the  years— 
to  the  world  of  some  remote  posterity!  Undying 
fame !  He  thrilled  at  the  thought  of  thus  conquering 
ordinary  human  limitations,  of  not  perishing  at 
death,  of  stamping  an  almost  ineradicable  signet  of 
his  brain  upon  the  sphere  he  lived  in. 

With  such  motives  developing,  he  gathered  energy 
to  work,  despite  the  violence  of  his  pastimes,  at  a 
furious  rate.  Indeed,  for  the  moment  the  very,  ex- 
cessive stimulation  of  his  nerves  assisted  him  to 
performances  of  unnatural  merit.  The  same  means 
that  released  him,  nightly,  from  the  commonplace 
in  thought,  freed  him,  daily,  from  all  natural  mental 
inhibitions. 

It  came  to  pass  that  his  brain  was  stagnant  when 
he  was  not  agitating  it  with  tobacco  or  alcohol.  He 
worked  best,  he  asserted,  with  a  pipe  in  his  mouth 
and  a  decanter  near  at  hand. 

His  short  stories  found  ready  .market  with  the 
magazines;  a  novel,  the  very  motive  of  which  he 
contemplated  with  exultation,  was  roughly  taking 
shape.  Editors  began  to  write  to  him  in  flattering 
and  inquiring  terms.  Oliver  Corquill,  meeting  Felix 
on  the  street,  was  quick  with  compliments.  He 
declared  that  the  young  man  had  surprised  him. 

But  the  novelist  still  had  a  good  deal  of  advice  to 
offer.  He  concluded  a  technical  dissertation  by  say- 
ing, in  a  kindly  voice: 


MARIE  173 

"If  you  will  pardon  me,  Piers,  I  think  that  at 
present  you  are  too  much  an  actor,  not  enough  of  a 
spectator,  to  appreciate  the  drama  accurately." 

"But,"  protested  Felix,  with  a  blush,  remember- 
ing his  aphorism,  •  "  can  one  describe  without  having 
felt?" 

"I  will  say  this,  at  least,"  Corquill  replied.  "One 
cannot  describe  clearly  what  he  is  experiencing.  In 
the  midst  of  stress,  one  sees  everything  with  partial 
eyes.  Judgment,  such  as  is  necessary  for  intelligent 
work  of  our  kind,  contains  no  emotional  prejudices. 
He  records  life  precisely  who  views  it  from  without, 
just  as  it  is  an  alien  historian,  not  a  soldier  in  the 
heat  of  battle,  who  records  the  true  complexion  of  a 
war.  So  it  is  that  you  will  not  begin  to  attain  your 
ends  till  you  detach  yourself  from  the  hurly-burly  of 
experience.  The  difficulty  is,  in  many  cases,  finally 
to  detach  oneself.  To  take  a  violent  example :  some- 
times the  soldier  is  so  seriously  crippled  on  the  field 
that  he  never  comes  to  write  his  memoirs." 

Paul  Pavin,  too,  preached  his  sermon,  and  more 
emphatically. 

"It  is  well  to  be  young,  my  Felix,  and  to  learn  life; 
but,  mon  Dieu,  even  youth,  if  it  is  to  develop  into 
something,  should  contain  a  grain  of  moderation. 
You  go  too  far:  one  of  these  days  you  will  find  your- 
self beyond  your  depth,  and  the  swim  back  too  long. 
Put  down  that  whiskey  and  soda ;  you  are  not  drink- 
ing it  because  you  are  thirsty.  Suppose,  now,  I 
painted  portraits  with  my  stomach  full  of  cham- 
pagne? Or  with  my  head  full  of  some  woman? 


174  PREDESTINED 

Art  is  its  own  stimulus,  and  foreign  stimulation  has 
wrecked  it  many  a  time.  Mme.  Lodbrok  is  going  to 
look  in  here  presently:  I  will  get  her  to  tell  you  a 
story." 

The  singer,  having  supplemented  her  season's 
work  in  opera  with  a  profitable  concert  tour  through 
the  Middle  West,  was  about  to  sail  for  Europe. 
Indeed,  she  came  that  afternoon  to  Pavin's  studio  to 
say  good-by.  As  majestic  of  port,  fair,  and  good- 
humored  as  ever,  she  greeted  Felix  heartily,  and,  in 
passing  to  her  deep  chair  beside  the  copper  coffee- 
pot, could  not  forego  the  pleasure  of  pinching  his 
cheek. 

"What  is  there  about  him,  Pavin,  to  make  me 
do  that?  He  will  go  far,  I  think — this  boy!" 

"I  have  just  been  telling  him  that  he  will  go  too 
far,  unless  he  takes  care,"  returned  the  artist,  as 
flatly  as  if  Felix  were  not  present.  "I  am  reminded 
of  a  certain  old  history  that  we  both  know  too  well. 
Chere  amie,  are  you  willing  to  relate  it?" 

Mme.  Lodbrok  set  down  her  coffee-cup.  Her  face 
clouded. 

"You  wish  me  to  tell  him  about  Buron?" 

For  a  while  she  looked  out,  through  the  great 
"north  light,"  at  the  tender  sky.  High  in  the  blue 
lay  motionless  a  few  transparent  little  clouds,  all 
trailing  shreds,  slowly  reddening  in  the  sunshine  of 
the  late  afternoon.  It  was  early  May.  A  light 
breeze,  drifting  through  open  sections  of  the  "rorth 
light,"  dispelled  the  tobacco  smoke  and  scattered 
faint,  fresh  odors. 


MARIE  175 

Mme.  Lodbrok  woke. 

"Thirty  years!  Figure  to  yourself,  Paul,  that  it  is 
thirty  years!" 

Then,  to  Felix: 

"Did  you  ever  hear  of  Pierre  Buron?" 

He  shook  his  head. 

"Well,  that  is  natural.  'My  vision  reaches  too 
far  ahead,'  he  used  to  say.  '  It  is  not  my  own  period, 
even  in  my  own  country,  that  will  appreciate  me.' 
But  when  you  speak  of  the  three  little,  thin  books  of 
Pierre  Buron  to  the  very  few  in  Paris  who  know, 
.  they  will  answer — '  There  is  the  quintessence  of 
literature.  It  will  rise  again.' 

"He  was  handsomer  than  you,  liebchen,  and  with 
such  eyes!" 

Pavin,  nodding  his  big  beard,  interjected: 

"I  used  to  pass  him  on  the  street,  when  I  was  a 
poverty-stricken  young  devil  of  a  student.  Eh,  how 
those  eyes  of  his  held  me!  Without  knowing  him, 
I  loved  him.  Then,  one  day,  in  the  Luxembourg 
Gardens,  he  sat  down  beside  me.  From  that  time, 
he  permitted  me  to  be  his  friend." 

"Yes,"  assented  Mme.  Lodbrok,  "he  had  a  great 
charm  for  men,  and,  faith,  a  charm  for  women!  For 
my  part,  I  considered  him  a  god.  I  was  eighteen, 
fresh  from  Sweden,  a  student  in  the  Conservatory, 
when  he  married  me. 

"What  prospects!  He  had  youth,  elegance,  the 
prestige  of  an  old  family,  a  sufficient  fortune,  and 
talents  that  put  his  head  among  the  clouds.  He  was 
a  person  absolutely  different,  enjoying  a — what  is 


1 76  PREDESTINED 

that  phrase — 'divine  release  from  the  common  ways 
of  men.' 

"When  his  first  book  appeared,  the  marvellous  life 
that  was  expected  of  him! 

"Then  he  took  to  drink,  deliberately,  as  he  took  to 
all  dissipations,  in  order  to  feel  every  human  thrill. 
What  a  curiosity  about  life  he  had!  Before  it  was 
appeased,  he  found  himself  caught. 

"We  know  how  much  more  quickly  a  delicate 
mechanism  is  ruined  than  a  coarse  one.  Bit  by 
bit,  all  that  beautiful  fabric  of  genius  was  strained  to 
pieces.  In  time  everything  admirable  in  his  nature 
was  destroyed.  His  brilliancy,  his  good  name,  and 
his  fortune  gone,  he  sank,  through  all  sorts  of  shame- 
ful vicissitudes,  from  sight.  And  there  remained  only 
those  three  little  books,  that  had  been  thought  the 
forerunners  of  how  splendid  a  career!" 

After  a  long  pause  Felix,  clearing  his  throat, 
asked,  timidly: 

"He  is  still  alive,  then?" 

Mme.  Lodbrok  produced  a  handkerchief,  and 
blew  her  nose.  She  replied: 

"If  he  were  dead,  I  am  certain,  I  should  feel  it. 
Yes,  poor  creature,  surely,  somewhere  or  other,  he  is 
still  dragging  round  his  chains." 


CHAPTER  IX 

FELIX  considered  the  philosophy  of  Paul  Pavin. 

That  Frenchman,  worldly-wise,  cynical,  irreverent, 
assuredly  no  social  moralist  in  either  theory  or  prac- 
tice, still  had  his  deity,  in  naming  which  he  became 
grave  on  the  instant,  and  to  preserve  the  perfect 
image  of  which  he  would  undoubtedly  have  turned 
ruthless  as  a  fanatic — throttling  habits  at  the  moment 
of  their  first  encroachment,  bludgeoning  friendships 
proved  cumbrous,  and  stabbing  hearts  grown  over- 
fond. 

Such  devotion  to  art  the  young  man  found  mag- 
nificent. In  viewing  that  career,  it  was  as  if  he  were 
gazing  on  a  great  cliff  of  coral  rock,  dashed  by  the 
waves,  yet  never  shaken,  amid  all  lashing  tempests 
teeming  with  a  creative  energy  that  built  the  summit, 
year  by  year,  to  proportions  ever  nobler. 

The  echoes  of  Pavin's  admonition  continued  to 
strike  on  his  ears — clear,  sane  notes  piercing  a  con- 
fusion of  futile  sounds.  Not  Mme.  Lodbrok's  story 
—since  he  could  not,  in  vigor,  feel  prescience  of 
disaster  any  more  than  of  death — but  Pavin's  words, 
"Art  is  its  own  stimulus,"  decided  him  to  try,  at 
least,  another  way  of  living. 

Felix  swore  off  drinking,  then  limited  himself,  as 

once  before,  to  three  cigars  a  day,  and  finally,  feeling 

177 


178  PREDESTINED 

a  spiritual  exhilaration  as  he  contemplated  absolute 
sobriety,  made  so  many  good  resolutions  that,  if  he 
had  proved  able  to  fulfil  them  all,  his  life  would  have 
been  scarcely  less  hedged  about  with  decorous  restric- 
tions than  an  anchorite's. 

Then  came  a  morning  distinguished  by  sensations 
of  superiority,  when  he  seemed  to  be  looking  down 
from  a  great  height  on  a  misguided  humankind — a 
swarm  of  groundlings  scrambling  about,  their  noses 
to  the  earth,  in  silly,  unprofitable,  and  perverse 
pursuits. 

He  quickly  found  opportunity  to  make  all  his 
friends  aware,  as  if  by  chance,  that  "he  was  not 
drinking  any  more,"  that  "he  smoked  very  little 
now,"  and  so  on.  He  insisted  on  discussing  dissipa- 
tion, which,  he  asserted,  "had  never  yet  been  good 
for  any  one,  and  was  particularly  bad  for  those  who 
worked  with  their  brains."  In  short,  he  declaimed 
in  public,  rather  than  considered  in  private,  his  half- 
formed  reasonings. 

But  his  tone  of  voice  was  so  authoritative,  and  his 
continent  demeanor  so  imposing,  that  he  gave  his 
auditors  an  impression  of  strength.  Maybe  it  was 
the  memory  of  old  resolves,  old  struggles,  old  re- 
lapses, rousing  a  secret  envy  in  the  region  of  the 
conscience,  that  so  clouded  the  faces  of  those  listening 
friends  of  Felix's.  Marie  herself,  since  he  seemed  to 
have  taken  her  advice,  had  a  thoughtful  manner — as 
of  one  who  has  found,  unexpectedly,  a  strange  ele- 
ment to  cope  with. 

And  now,  declared  Felix,  for  work  in  earnest! 


MARIE  179 

But  his  work  did  not  proceed. 

The  stimulus  that  had  driven  him  for  months 
withdrawn,  that  "stimulus  of  art,"  which  was  to 
replace  it,  failed  to  appear.  For  art  itself  had  a 
depreciated  aspect  now,  and  all  the  conceptions  per- 
taining to  it  lost  their  lustre.  Just  as  one  emerging 
from  a  dream  full  of  agreeable  illusions  is  saddened 
to  find  enclosing  him  again  a  dreary  and  monoto- 
nous reality,  so  Felix,  all  his  induced  enthusiasms 
waning,  looked  mournfully  on  an  altered  world, 
wherein  only  prosaic  features  were  obtruded. 

He  sat  by  the  hour  at  his  writing-table,  listless, 
at  gaze,  thinking  not  of  literature,  but  of  abjured 
pleasures.  All  that  he  had  regarded  as  unprofitable, 
in  his  burst  of  zeal,  took  on  again  insidiously,  in  this 
retrospection,  its  allurements.  The  arguments  which 
he  had  thrown  into  the  faces  of  his  friends  were  logi- 
cal no  longer. 

What  a  fool  he  had  been,  to  run  about  publish- 
ing his  fine  intentions!  Already  he  was  furtively 
arranging  the  excuses  he  might  offer,  should  /  he 
reappear  clothed  in  his  old  habits. 

It  was  the  first  of  June — a  mild,  sun-drenched 
afternoon  made  for  all  sorts  of  joyous  dilatations. 
The  air  that  blew  through  Felix's  open  windows  in 
West  Thirty-second  Street  was  a  draught  as  intoxi- 
cating as  champagne. 

Drab  thoughts,  long  faces,  forbidding  gestures, 
continence  that  shrivelled  the  heart — what  had  they 
to  do  with  youth  in  Spring  ?  They  belonged  to  age, 
sitting  cold  and  cramped  beside  the  empty  hearth, 


i8o  PREDESTINED 

shaking  its  old  head  dismally,  hypocritically,  over 
what  it  could  enjoy  no  longer. 

Pavin  himself — a  nice  pattern  for  a  preacher,  even 
now!  And  in  his  youth?  Little  likelihood  that  he 
had  put  on  so  much  as  a  shred  of  crape  till  curiosity 
had  been  jigged  to  death! 

"That  for  his  fine  maxims!"  cried  Felix,  snapping 
his  fingers  at  the  writing-table.  "Not  a  line  scratched 
off — that's  what  they're  worth!  He  works  best  who 
acts  like  'a  man  of  this  world';  I  can  see  that, 
clearly ! "  Old  ways  lay  bathed  in  roseate  light ;  just 
the  determination  to  speed  back  to  them  made  him 
himself  again.  The  dog,  Pat,  bounded  round  his 
.master,  barking. 

So  ended  that  experiment. 

Pavin,  at  least,  was  not  a  witness  of  Felix's  relapse. 
The  portrait -painter,  his  commissions  finished,  gave 
up  his  studio  in  the  Velasquez  Building  and  em- 
barked for  France.  He  left  with  Felix  the  informa- 
tion that  he  had  recently  renewed  acquaintance,  in 
some  fashionable  gathering,  with  "a  Mr.  Fray,"  who, 
on  inheriting  a  fortune  from  a  distant  relative,  had 
managed  with  a  thousand  ingenuities  and  urbanities 
to  work  his  way  up,  through  various  social  strata, 
into  the  most  admirable  company.  Indeed,  he  was 
even  then  all  but  engaged  to  be  married  to  a  girl 
of  distinguished  family. 

Felix's  hatred  of  the  young  dilettante  was  fanned 
to  a  more  furious  flame  than  ever.  That  miserable 
shallow-pate,  all  self-conceit,  duplicity,  and  spite — 
that  weak  Judas,  with  his  eyes  of  a  sick  kitten! 


MARIE  181 

Again  Felix  longed  to  get  his  hands  on  Mortimer 
Fray's  thin  neck. 

He  over  whose  very  shoulders,  as  it  seemed,  the 
fellow  had  wriggled  into  wealth  and  place,  saw  him- 
self hardly  better  off  for  money  than  for  social  status. 

Convinced  by  Noon's  benevolence  that  luck  would 
extricate  him  in  the  nick  of  time  from  any  quandary, 
he  had  been  extravagant  as  ever.  In  six  months,  to 
be  sure,  he  had  banked  eighteen  hundred  dollars, 
earned  from  the  magazines;  but  who  could  live 
agreeably,  along  Broadway,  at  that  rate? 

Noon,  on  the  other  hand,  having  served  in  the 
beginning  to  set  the  pace,  was  now  able  to  acceler- 
ate it. 

The  speculator,  sensing  financial  reverses  near 
their  origin,  as  a  seafarer  senses  remotely-gathering 
storms,  played  the  game  of  stocks  so  shrewdly  that 
his  occasional  large  losses  were  far  exceeded  by  his 
profits.  A  born  gambler,  confident  of  the  ultimate 
success  of  his  luck,  judgment,  and  audacity,  he  no 
more  revealed  despondency  at  a  disastrous  day  than 
triumph  at  a  rich  coup.  A  ponderous  air  of  mastery 
was  developing  in  him  at  the  expense  of  genial  traits. 
His  smiles  were  less  amiable,  his  features  in  repose 
more  grim.  His  very  dissipations — though  exceeding 
in  prodigality  all  previous  limits — now  had  in  them, 
Felix  thought,  something  reserved  and  calculating. 

Whenever  Noon  met  the  young  man,  he  com- 
plained of  "those  two  girls,  with  their  silly  quarrel, 
ending  so  much  good  sport."  Surely,  he  hinted,  it 
was  Marie's  fault;  for  Nora  had  never  in  her  easy- 


182  PREDESTINED 

going  life  been  known  to  nurse  a  grudge.  At  last, 
after  jerking  his  head  involuntarily  half  a  dozes 
times,  Noon  would  rumble: 

"Felix,  why  don't  you  reason  with  Marie?" 

But  Felix's  ideas  in  respect  of  that  had  changed. 
He  saw  enough  of  the  speculator  as  it  was.  Besides, 
his  instinct  no  longer  recognized  in  Noon,  for  all  the 
latter's  slaps  on  the  back,  whispered  anecdotes,  and 
grins,  the  eager  friendliness  of  other  days. 

The  reconciliation  was,  however,  effected  without 
Felix's  aid. 

Marie,  with  compunction  for  an  excuse,  donned 
her  newest  hat  and  dress,  and  went  to  call  on  Nora. 
Noon,  opportunely  strolling  in  toward  dinner-time, 
found  the  two  young  women  together.  They  had 
"made  up";  everything  was  to  be  just  as  formerly! 
The  three,  driving  to  Marie's  rooms,  burst  in  upon 
Felix,  laughing,  bustling,  demanding  that  he  snatch 
his  hat  and  come  to  dinner.  His  gloom,  acquired 
from  waiting  long  alone,  was  not  much  abated  by 
that  tableau. 

So  it  was  that  those  four  found  themselves  again 
in  close  association.  But  for  all  Nora  Llanelly's 
charms,  it  was  now  Marie's  personality  that  pre- 
vailed. The  beauty  of  the  one  had  been  eclipsed, 
in  the  last  few  months,  by  the  other's  various  devel- 
oping talents. 

No  one  could  well  have  mistaken  Nora's  origin, 
what  with  her  loud  laughter,  elementary  vocabulary, 
ready  amazement,  and  ignorance  of  everything  not 
duplicated  in  the  life  of  Broadway.  But  even  Felix 


MARIE  183 

had  been  imposed  on  by  Marie's  conversation  and 
behavior. 

And  these  she  was  continually  improving. 

In  public,  nothing  escaped  her :  from  the  slightest 
interplay  of  manners  in  which  cultivated  persons  took 
part  she  got  instruction.  Moreover,  no  lesson  had  to 
be  repeated  to  her. 

Then,  in  private,  whenever  Felix  touched  on  a 
topic  unfamiliar  to  her,  without  betraying  lack  of 
knowledge,  she  succeeded  in  enlightening  herself. 
Frequently  Felix  learned,  from  her  reference  to  some 
minor  usage  of  polite  society,  from  an  opinion  recently 
relieved  of  bourgeois  quality,  or  just  from  the  cor- 
rected pronunciation  of  a  word,  that  he  had  taught 
her  something. 

Her  discourse,  always  confined  to  well-learned 
topics,  appreciating  common  subjects  from  a  superior 
riew-point,  was  delivered  in  a  voice  free  from  any 
plebeian  accent,  well  modulated,  never  loud.  It  was 
her  habit  to  drink  but  one  glass  of  champagne:  so, 
unlike  many  of  her  woman  friends,  she  had  no 
lapses  from  good  taste,  made  no  false  moves,  re- 
vealed no  ignorance.  She  was  at  pains  to  show,  in 
all  situations,  that  she  could  "do  the  right  thing." 
Although  she  needed  no  foil  now,  it  was  when  Nora 
was  with  her  that  she  shone  most  brilliantly. 

"That  girl,"  Felix  was  assured  by  Noon,  "is  going 
to  get  there." 

Indeed,  she  was  already  "getting  there"  in  several 
ways.  Toward  the  middle  of  July,  she  had  a  nota- 
ble success  in  her  profession. 


1 84  PREDESTINED 

"The  Silly  Season,"  Montmorrissy's  new  summer 
review,  was  produced  on  the  roof  of  the  Trocadero 
Theatre.  There,  beneath  the  stars,  amid  clustered 
lamps,  palms,  grottoes  tinkling  with  cascades,  painted 
precipices  overhung  with  growing  flowers,  an  audi- 
ence in  summer  dress  waxed  hilarious  while  gaping 
up  at  the  bright  little  stage. 

It  was  a  burlesque  of  the  chief  happenings  of  the 
year:  in  it  the  affairs  of  crowned  heads,  politicians, 
actresses,  and  a  host  of  persons  locally  notorious  or 
celebrated,  were  extravagantly  travestied. 

From  the  first  moment  the  action  struck  a  furious 
gait.  Scene  melted  into  scene:  horse-play  was 
swallowed  up  in  exaggerated  sentiment,  which,  in 
turn,  was  annihilated  by  a  broad  joke.  The  stage 
was  one  instant  full  of  marching  amazons,  next 
empty  save  for  the  tenor  and  the  prima  donna 
gyrating  in  a  swift  dance,  then,  in  a  flash,  filled  for 
no  particular  reason  with  small  girls  in  the  extremity 
of  dishabille,  who  fell  to  kicking  in  a  way  that  bade 
fair  to  disjoint  them.  Comedians,  all  plaids  and 
grease-paint,  bounced  through  the  rout  with  howls 
in  the  dialect  of  the  "Tenderloin."  "Show  girls" 
came  strolling  forth  in  costumes  that  amazed  the 
audience.  A  dancer,  whose  further  appearance  the 
police  were  expected  to  prohibit,  exercised  herself 
till  her  powder  disappeared  beneath  a  flood  of 
perspiration.  Lights  rose  and  died — as  the  scenery 
dissolved  and  took  new  form — on  scurrying  choruses 
that  glistened  half  bare  skin,  half  spangles ;  sunshine, 
moonlight,  and  all  the  rich  rays  of  the  spectrum, 


MARIE  185 

played  on  the  painted  eyes  of  singers  scattering  know- 
ing winks,  on  broad  hands  passing  over  whitened 
shoulders,  on  comely  faces  placid  at  the  embraces  of 
buffoons  as  inhuman-looking,  in  their  "make-up,"  as 
gorillas. 

With  the  progress  of  that  spectacle,  in  which  there 
appeared  to  be  no  place  for  any  rational  thought, 
a  sort  of  vertiginous  enthusiasm  was  communicated 
to  the  audience.  Applause  grew  wild;  laughter  be- 
came hysterical;,  men's  eyes  expressed  their  natures; 
women  forgot  to  look  askance;  in  nearly  all  faces 
there  was  something  rakish. 

But  Felix  sat  gazing  at  the  stage  without  a 
smile. 

He  saw  Marie,  slim  as  a  wood-sprite,  wrapped 
apparently  in  nothing  but  a  rose-colored  scarf  be- 
strewn with  golden  flowers.  The  corsage  of  this 
costume  was  immoderately  low  in  front  and  wholly 
lacking  behind ;  the  skirts  clung  to  the  young  woman 
as  if  wet;  the  fringes,  a  foot  in  length,  swung  from 
her  knees. 

She  had  complained  of  this  attire,  of  certain  lines 
in  her  part,  of  the  general  effect  that  she  would  have 
to  produce.  Her  ideas,  it  appeared,  had  been  all  for 
a  role  in  which  one  could  preserve  some  vestiges  of 
propriety.  She  had  even  gone  so  far  as  to  tell  Felix, 
after  the  dress  rehearsal,  that  "she  had  a  good  mind 
to  walk  out."  Yet  once  on  the  stage,  nothing  could 
have  been  more  nearly  perfect  than  her  serenity. 
She  also  knew,  no  doubt,  that  she  had  never  looked 
so  prepossessing. 


1 86  PREDESTINED 

Her  wig,  elaborately  puffed,  set  with  three  golden 
bands,  was  auburn  of  the  darkest  shade.  Amid  that 
emphatic  aureole  her  face  gleamed  like  a  cameo,  all 
its  decisive  lines  of  cheek  and  chin  but  adding  to 
the  clear-cut  beauty  of  the  whole.  Her  eyes,  never 
previously  fine,  were  strangely  elongated  and  lang- 
uishing; her  lips,  by  nature  thin,  had  gained,  from 
some  new  trick  with  carmine  paint,  a  voluptuous 
contour  plausible  even  at  close  quarters.  To  add 
final  accent  to  her  air  of  delicate  artificiality,  pendent 
ear-rings  of  coral,  carved,  like  threaded  rose-buds, 
were  permitted  to  graze  her  shoulders. 

She  uttered  a  song  with  seemingly  capricious 
changes  from  parlando  to  clear  musical  tones;  she 
filled  a  dance,  in  waltz  time,  with  a  hundred  unex- 
pected, dainty  gestures.  Made  perfect  in  every  note 
and  posture  by  innumerable  rehearsals,  exhibiting 
with  a  sure  touch  all  Montmorrissy's  devices  as  her 
own,  she  surprised  friends  and  roused  the  admiration 
of  strangers. 

Men  searched  the  programme  for  her  identity, 
bandied  her  name  about,  stared  at  her  with  critical 
and  impudent  expressions.  And  it  seemed  to  Felix 
that  all  those  glances  rested  on  her  with  a  material 
contact.  He  was  like  one  who  sees  some  belonging, 
of  the  most  intimate  associations,  exposed,  handled, 
and  appraised  by  cynical  auctioneers. 

That  night,  he  began  to  hate  Marie's  environ- 
ment. 

But  nowadays  it  seemed  as  if  the  only  air  he  could 
breathe  was  that  of  the  theatre.  It  filled  Broadway, 


MARIE  187 

permeated  all  the  resorts  in  which  he  passed  his  time, 
penetrated  Marie's  apartment,  where  there  seemed 
to  cling  to  the  very  hangings  something  of  the  close, 
cosmetic-laden  atmosphere  of  dressing-rooms. 

There  the  flatly  scandalous  note  was  struck  by 
.Mattie,  the  lax-mouthed  mulatto  maid — who  now 
costumed  Marie  at  the  theatre  and  was  hand  in  glove 
with  all  the  other  servants — and  by  Miriam,  the 
saturnine  hairdresser.  From  this  functionary's  black 
satchel,  worn  shiny  on  her  questionable  rounds, 
seemed  to  issue  with  the  curling-irons  and  the 
brushes,  as  if  from  a  Pandora's  box,  all  sorts  of 
greasy  calumnies.  The  hairdresser  was,  perhaps,  as 
much  an  unexpurgated  gazette  as  a  constructor  of 
coiffures. 

There,  also,  were  aired  by  visiting  young  women 
attired  in  their  best,  the  politics  of  the  stage — the 
machinations  for  advancement,  the  combinations 
made  by  spite  against  popularity,  the  disparagements 
of  talent.  Felix  grew  weary  listening  to  tales  of 
the  jealousies  of  actresses,  the  vanities  of  actors,  the 
despotism  of  Montmorrissy — to  such  phrases  as, 
"She  didn't  get  a  hand  to-night,"  "He  queered  her 
turn  with  a  lot  of  comic  business  on  the  side," 
"That  couple  ought  to  be  playing  the  tank  towns," 
"He  always  manages  somehow  to  sneak  upstage 
and  steal  the  scene,"  "She's  had  her  two  weeks' 
notice  from  Monty."  Little  Felix  cared  that  the 
ugly  drummer,  whose  behavior  had  once  diverted 
him,  was  discharged  for  habitual  drunkenness,  or 
that  the  young  tenor — whose  name  was  Mackeron 


1 88  PREDESTINED 

— had  finally  got  his  wife  to  divorce  him.  But  Miss 
Qewan,  Marie's  gentle  friend,  was  for  some  obscure 
reason  dismissed  from  the  company  without  warn- 
ing. Marie  expressed  her  indignation  to  Felix. 

"All  those  weeks  of  rehearsing  without  pay,  and 
part  of  her  own  wardrobe  to  buy!  Did  that  matter 
to  Monty?"  And,  with  a  fixed  stare,  Marie  vehe- 
mently exclaimed: 

"The  beast!" 

She  hastened  to  add  that  every  one  said  the  same ; 
for  Miss  Qewan,  "as  good  a  girl  as  ever  stepped," 
was  trying  to  bring  up  an  eight -year-old  sister. 

Felix  thought  less  than  ever  of  Marie's  instructor. 

Whenever  he  met  the  manager,  he  found  it  hard  to 
look  politely  into  that  flaccid  countenance,  cunning, 
self-sufficient,  quizzical  and  reserved  by  flashes.  For 
some  reason,  Felix  always  seemed  to  afford  Mont- 
morrissy  amusement.  Possibly  it  was  the  young 
man's  ingenuousness,  not  yet  altogether  destroyed  by 
the  buffets  of  experience,  that  entertained  the  other. 

Then,  too,  it  irked  Felix  more  and  more  to  be 
agreeable  in  Noon's  company. 

Every  day  he  had  to  watch  the  speculator  cut  a 
fine  figure  with  his  inexhaustible  wallet.  That  burly, 
deep-voiced  fellow,  shaved  to  the  blood,  odorous  of 
toilet-water,  always  "dressed  to  kill,"  flashing  a  great 
ruby  and  diamond  finger-ring  every  time  he  raised 
his  hand,  was  surely  the  most  blatant,  vulgar  creat- 
ure drawing  breath.  Felix  was  disgusted  with  his 
stories  of  successful  gambling,  his  disregard  of  money, 
his  reckless  proposals,  his  "cock-sure,"  masterful 


MARIE  189 

demeanor — in  fine,  with  each  act  of  his  beyond 
emulation. 

It  was  Noon  who  took  the  lead  in  all  excursions — 
who  telephoned  for  the  table  in  the  restaurant, 
ordered  the  automobile,  harangued  the  head  waiter, 
accepted  the  courses  with  a  nod,  mixed  the  salad- 
dressing,  sent  word  to  the  chef,  so  that  "the  rascal 
should  know  whom  he  was  cooking  for."  Familiar 
with  the  city  to  its  farthest  outskirts,  famous  in  all 
places  of  amusement  for  his  generosity,  he  was,  as 
Marie  argued,  "a  comfortable  person  to  have  along." 

Perhaps  he  conducted  them  through  the  night 
to  some  road-house,  surrounded  by  shrubbery,  its 
broad  porch,  full  of  dinner  tables,  encircling  it  with 
a  shining  zone,  violin  tones  issuing  from  its  open 
windows  to  mingle  with  the  songs  of  crickets  and 
katydids.  There  the  proprietor  skipped  down  the 
steps  to  greet  him;  waiters  recalled  his  name  and 
hovered  round  him  to  suggest  his  favorite  dishes; 
orchestra  leaders  bowed  while  beating  time;  ser- 
vility and  eagerness  filled  every  face.  His  departure 
was  like  the  exit  of  a  grand  duke  incognito. 

The  two  young  women  confessed,  just  by  the 
flashing  of  their  eyes,  at  such  parade  of  respect,  how 
inspiriting  they,  at  least,  found  Noon's  companion- 
ship. 

Every  fair  Sunday  now  saw  them  speeding  far 
afield  in  his  red  automobile. 

On  country  roads,  they  were  caressed  by  the  sweet, 
tepid  breezes  of  midsummer.  Homesteads  nestling 
amid  apple-trees,  with  sheds,  bee-hives,  the  dairy- 


190  PREDESTINED 

house,  the  rustic  pump,  scattered  round  about, 
evoked  from  Marie  and  Nora  exclamations  of  delight. 
They  had  to  pause  where  lines  of  willows  leaned 
toward  a  brook,  where  glassy  ponds  reflected  sky 
and  clouds,  where  water-grass  was  stirred  by  zephyrs 
into  ripples.  Nora  wanted  to  take  off  her  shoes  and 
stockings  and  go  in  wading,  to  uproot  lily-pads,  to 
find  a  nest  with  fledglings  in  it,  to  ask  some  farmer 
for  a  drink  of  fresh,  warm  milk.  She  displayed,  in 
those  rural  regions,  the  artlessness  and  excitement  of 
a  city  urchin  on  his  first  country  outing.  She 
scrambled  through  underbrush  regardless  of  lace 
petticoats — then  reappeared  with  dishevelled  tresses, 
with  flushed  face  moist,  her  skirts  studded  with  burrs, 
her  arms  laden  with  coarse,  yellow  daisies.  Marie 
was  content  to  pick  a  couple  of  wild  rose  blossoms 
by  the  roadside,  with  which  she  decorated  the  lapels 
of  Noon's  and  Felix's  coats.  Sometimes,  espying  on 
an  eminence  a  charming  bit  of  landscape,  she  would 
press  the  young  man's  arm,  and  murmur: 

"Our  house  ought  to  be  built  in  such  a  place?" 
She  had  grown  frank  in  that  respect. 
At  dusk,  from  the  pavilions  of  casinos  by  the  sea, 
they  watched  remote  lights  steal  across  the  water 
over  a  maze  of  wavering  reflections.  Stars  filled  the 
heavens  in  great  patches,  like  a  glittering  spawn. 
With  ejaculations  of  triumph,  they  discovered  the 
Great  Dipper,  the  Bear,  the  ruddy  twinkle  of  the 
planet  Mars.  Then  a  realization  of  the  immensity 
of  space,  of  the  illimitable  field  of  worlds,  of  the 
earth's  insignificance,  subdued  them.  They  sat 


MARIE  191 

silent,  looking  over  the  water  with  wistful,  vacuous 
expressions. 

In  the  cool  depths  of  midnight  returning  at  full 
speed,  they  were  lulled  to  lethargy  by  the  reiteration 
of  long,  narrow  vistas,  leafy,  streaming,  leaping  from 
blackness  into  brilliancy  at  the  flash  of  their  acety- 
lene lamps.  Then,  midst  the  obscurity  aloft,  there 
grew  before  their  tired  eyes  a  .tremulous,  far-stretch- 
ing radiance — the  city's  nimbus.  Finally,  they 
reached  the  littered  streets,  roused  themselves  at  the 
noises  of  humanity,  and,  a  little  sad,  penetrated 
the  constricted  places  they  called  home. 

Through  the  open  windows  of  Marie's  parlor 
entered  the  nocturnal  racket  of  Lincoln  Square. 
Brakes  and  gongs  of  trolley-cars,  automobile  horns, 
horses'  hoofs,  shrill  voices,  filled  the  street  with 
echoes  of  that  clarity  which  seems  peculiar  to  Sunday. 
Hot,  malodorous  exhalations  rose  from  the  pave- 
ment, which  was  covered  with  broad,  sticky-looking 
stains. 

Felix,  his  various  elations  worn  away,  his  head 
throbbing  painfully,  stood  by  the  window.  Remem- 
bering the  savor  of  the  sea,  the  perfume  of  meadows, 
the  wafted  smells,  at  nightfall,  of  invisible  wet  earth 
and  flowers,  he  suffered  as  if  from  a  spiritual  retro- 
gression. Thus  he  was  invariably  drawn  back  by 
destiny — from  the  serene,  pure  reaches  of  the  woods 
and  fields  to  sickly  turmoil,  from  something  that 
approached  contentment  of  the  heart  to  feverish 
desires  in  gratifying  which  there  was  more  pain  than 
pleasure ! 


192  PREDESTINED 

Was  he,  indeed,  himself  in  this  great,  stone-bound 
prison  of  a  city,  or  did  he  but  step  in  time  with 
countless  others?  Was  it  his  own  will  that  drove 
him  through  the  vortex,  or  the  mingled  impulses  of 
a  million  other  minds?  How  to  be  one's  own  mas- 
ter, how  to  stand  isolate  in  spirit,  unshaken  by  any 
impact — the  cliff  with  summit  high  above  the  surge  ? 
Perhaps,  far  away,  buried  in  the  fastnesses  of  forests, 
or  on  a  mountain  side  above  the  clouds,  one  might, 
like  those  Brahmin  mystics  who  sit  on  the  peaks 
before  the  Himalayas,  find  oneself?  He  recalled  a 
passage  from  a  Persian  poem:  "There  is  safety  in 
solitude."  And  for  a  moment  he  glimpsed  the  wis- 
dom that  belongs  to  age :  he  wondered  if  happiness, 
so  violently  sought,  did  not  consist  in  peace. 

"For  heaven's  sake,  Felix,  what  are  you  dreaming 
about!" 

With  a  start,  he  turned  from  the  window. 

A  shaded  lamp,  of  yellow  porcelain,  made  the 
centre  table  bright,  but  left  the  walls  in  shadow. 
The  lower  portions  alone  of  the  green  portieres 
were  revealed  distinctly;  the  claw-like  feet  of  chairs 
showed  little  patches  of  light;  the  pattern  of  the 
rug  was  emphasized:  an  intricate  design  of  flowers, 
yellow,  green,  and  blue.  Beyond  an  open  door 
appeared,  in  a  dim  sleeping-room,  a  dressing-table. 
The  mirror,  tilted  forward,  reflected  jars  of  cold- 
cream,  flasks  of  essence,  powder-boxes,  crumpled 
handkerchiefs,  hat -pins,  and  combs  of  tortoise-shell. 

And  the  odors  of  benzoine  and  "peau  d'Espagne," 
emanating  from  that  inner  chamber,  drove  out  of 


MARIE  193 

Felix's  brain  the  last  souvenirs  of  unsophisticated 
country  air. 

Those  rooms  were  now  the  centre-point  of  his 
existence:  to  them  his  thoughts  continually  turned; 
thither  his  feet  were  always  leading  him;  therein 
were  forged  for  him  chains  of  irresolution,  pliancy, 
and  subservience,  which  he  dragged  everywhere,  to 
the  exhaustion  of  his  individuality. 

He  trod  the  path  that  led  to  her  with  an  invariable 
agitation.  This  nervous  disturbance,  less  pleasur- 
able than  discomfortable,  increased  as  he  entered 
the  hotel,  mounted  in  the  elevator  to  her  floor,  and 
pressed  the  bell-button  at  her  threshold. 

The  door  swung  open;  Mattie,  the  maid,  with 
lowered  eyes,  mumbled:  "Good  evening,  Mr. 
Felix" — then  shrank  into  the  shadows.  Felix  trav- 
ersed the  short  private  hallway,  knocked  on  the 
parlor  door,  parted  the  green  velours  curtains,  saw 
her  again. 

Maybe  she  was  sitting  by  the  window,  in  a  loose 
gown,  reading  attentively  the  story  of  some  such 
enterprising  person  as  Mme.  du  Barry.  Without 
laying  down  her  book,  calmly  smiling,  she  stretched 
her  neck  slightly  for  his  kiss.  At  such  moments,  her 
self-possession  dissatisfied  him. 

"My  dear  boy,  don't  you  see  that  my  hair  is 
dressed  for  the  evening?  Did  you  stop  to  give  the 
photographer  a  blowing-up,  and  to  get  the  sheet 
music  I  wanted?  I'll  wager  you  forgot  those  Rus- 
sian cigarettes!" 

He  did  errands  for  her,  was  at  her  beck  and  call, 


IQ4  PREDESTINED 

deferred  to  her  in  all  things,  suited  his  hours  to  her 
convenience,  made  every  sacrifice  to  please  her.  In 
short,  with  his  innumerable  concessions  he  crushed 
from  his  consciousness  all  sense  of  freedom.  She 
dominated  him  completely. 

Yet  he  had  none  of  his  old  illusions  in  regard  to 
her.  He  made  no  more  fine  speeches  concerning 
"her  misfortunes,"  "the  injustice  of  fate,"  "a  day 
when  she  would  attain  the  place  that  she  deserved." 
Nor  was  she  now  at  pains  to  play  that  part. 

It  was  no  longer  necessary. 

Amid  his  present  surroundings — wherein  the  mar- 
ket-place of  the  affections  largely  throve  on  traffic  in 
damaged  goods — Felix  soon  found  it  reasonable  to 
cherish  what  was  not  apparently  excelled  about  him. 
In  Rome,  as  it  were,  he  did  after  the  fashion  of  the 
Romans ;  and,  without  much  surprise  at  the  deterio- 
ration of  his  sentiments,  he  learned  that  he  could 
expend  no  less  extravagant  an  ardor  on  the  tawny, 
speckled  lily  at  hand  than  if  it  were  the  rare,  white 
flower  of  his  early  dreams. 

But  he  had  to  pay,  in  consequence,  the  penalty  of 
jealousy. 

The  enigma  of  Marie's  past  tormented  him:  he 
tried  to  solve  it  by  all  sorts  of  devices.  He  became 
adept  in  leading  a  conversation  deviously  to  perilous 
ground,  where  Marie  might,  by  some  slip,  reveal  a 
little  of  her  secret.  He  grew  shrewd  in  deciphering 
the  looks,  gestures,  silences,  which  followed  his  innu- 
endoes, in  comparing  present  with  past  utterances,  in 
putting  two  and  two  together.  His  mind  was  a 


MARIE  195 

repository  for  scraps  of  information  dropped  by  her 
at  random,  from  which  he  hoped  to  piece  out  some 
day  a  coherent  history  of  her  career. 

He  wondered  if  he  might  not  have  learned  a  good 
deal  about  her  from  Pavin,  in  whose  studio  he  had 
met  her.  But  this  seemed  unlikely :  the  Frenchman 
had  never  shown  enough  interest  in  her  to  discuss 
her  willingly.  At  any  rate,  Felix  might  question 
women  unfriendly  to  her;  then,  too,  Nora  Llanelly 
was  "such  a  fool  it  would  not  be  hard  to  pump  her"; 
while  Mattie,  who  had  "worked  for  Miss  Sinjon 
before,"  could  probably  be  bribed. 

Nevertheless,  he  neglected  these  opportunities,  less 
from  shame  than  from  a  conviction  that  Marie  would 
find  him  out. 

Occasionally,  he  seemed  on  the  point  of  learning 
something  definite.  She  had  said  so-and-so;  at  a 
remark  of  his  she  had  looked  thus;  at  a  certain 
query  she  had  shown  agitation,  had  risen  from  one 
chair  to  take  another  farther  from  him,  while  exclaim- 
ing angrily,  "You  promised  me  once  that  you  would 
let  all  that  sort  of  thing  alone!"  Such  actions  surely 
meant  that  he  was  on  the  right  track. 

She  had  undoubtedly  known  some  one  with  such 
and  such  qualities,  with  an  appearance  of  this  and 
that  sort.  A  certain  man  in  her  life,  for  instance, 
had  been  an  inordinate  consumer  of  cigarettes,  fastid- 
ious in  his  apparel,  of  excellent  manners,  well-read, 
fond  of  the  arts,  indeed,  a  dilettante  and  a  collector — 
yes,  a  collector  of  fine  prints!  To  such  details  did 
Felix's  ingenuity  assist  him. 


196  PREDESTINED 

The  conjecture  of  one  day  became  next  morning 
a  certainty:  nothing  was  too  extravagant  for  belief 
after  it  had  aged  a  night.  Now  and  then,  when 
intoxicated,  Felix  looked  at  Marie  craftily,  with  half- 
shut  eyelids,  thinking:  "I  know  a  great  deal  more 
about  you  than  you  imagine."  In  his  opinion,  it  was 
a  kind  of  struggle  between  them. 

But  for  what  guerdon  ? 

From  his  machinations  Felix  got  nothing  but 
unhappiness.  No  sooner  had  he  discovered  in  her 
past,  as  he  believed,  some  new  detail  to  her  detri- 
ment, than  he  was  pierced  with  anguish.  While 
lying  awake  at  night — when  his  ingenuity  seemed  at 
its  best — a  fresh  conviction,  flashing  forth  at  the 
plausible  union  of  half  a  dozen  surmises,  frightened 
him  as  much  as  if  a  cold  hand  had  reached  out  of 
the  darkness  and  clutched  him  by  the  throat. 

"Yes,  yes,  whoever  that  fellow  was,  she  must  have 
been  in  love  with  him!  At  least,  he  had  surely  been 
in  love  with  her!"  And  Felix's  relations  with  her 
could  be  nothing  but  a  repetition — who  knew  but  an 
inferior  repetition!  No  doubt  he  was  suffering  all 
the  while  by  comparison. 

It  was  not  to  be  expected  that  the  young  man's 
jealousy  should  fail  to  invade  the  present. 

Every  breath  of  gossip  that  reached  him  bore  hint 
of  trust  betrayed  in  the  lives  round  about.  He  noted 
the  gullibility  of  infatuated  men,  the  security  of 
secrets  known  by  all  save  one.  He  remembered 
Gregory  Tamborlayne. 

Thereupon  he  became  preternaturally  alert.     His 


MARIE  197 

eyes  were  on  Marie  whenever  she  spoke  to  any  one. 
He  even  visited  her  at  unexpected  moments.  A 
cloud  of  cigarette  smoke  in  her  rooms  seemed  por- 
tentous, but  it  was  only  "Nora  and  some  other  girls 
who  had  just  left."  An  afternoon  newspaper  of 
sedate  tendency,  lying  on  the  centre  table,  made  his 
heart  beat  fast:  she  had  never  bought  it;  who  had 
left  it  there? 

"  They  're  always  sending  up  the  wrong  newspaper 
from  the  office.  What's  the  matter  with  you?  I 
never  saw  such  a  face!  Why,  one  might  think " 

"I  was  just  wondering  if  you  had  changed  your 
brand  of  news." 

"That's  not  the  truth!  I  can  read  you  like  a 
book.  And  let  me  tell  you,  people  never  have  such 
thoughts  unless  they  give  good  cause  for  the  same 
kind!" 

While  looking  at  him  steadily,  her  green  eyes 
became  vacant.  Her  lips  gradually  parted  in  a 
smile.  Her  rapt  expression  was  new  to  him.  After 
some  moments,  she  inquired,  absent-mindedly: 

"What  would  you  do  if  you  found  some  one?" 

For  an  instant  he  could  not  believe  his  ears.  Was 
it  she  who  had  said  such  a  thing? 

At  last,  his  lips  quivering,  he  answered,  in  a  low 
voice  full  of  sarcasm: 

"Nothing,  of  course!" 

Her  eyes  seemed  to  wake,  her  smile  disappeared. 
She  made  haste  to  slip  her  arms  round  him. 

"Oh,  you  poor  boy,  I'm  so  sorry!  You  take  every- 
thing the  wrong  way !  I  was  only  joking;  the  idea  of 


198  PREDESTINED 

such  a  thing  seemed  so  ridiculous.  If  you  only  knew 
how  foolish  you  are  to  have  such  thoughts!" 

But  from  that  day  he  had  a  definite  apprehen- 
sion. 

He  even  went  so  far  as  to  consider  what  role  it 
would  be  proper  for  him  to  take  in  such  a  scene. 
He  scanned  the  ground  carefully,  like  a  man  about 
to  fight  a  duel.  In  the  top  drawer  of  her  dressing- 
table,  under  a  pile  of  handkerchiefs,  she  kept  an  extra 
key  to  her  hall  door.  Felix  abstracted  it. 

One  afternoon,  a  craftiness  developed  by  numer- 
ous cocktails  urged  him  to  use  this  key.  Just  as  he 
slipped  into  the  private  hallway,  he  heard  her  clear 
voice  raised  beyond  the  curtains: 

"Do  you  think  I  keep  papers  of  that  sort  about  me  ? 
They're  in  my  safe-deposit  box.  And  rest  assured, 
they'll  come  out  only  when  you've  made  up  your 
mind  about  them." 

Felix  tore  the  green  portieres  apart.  She  turned, 
perceived  him,  and,  with  a  gesture  that  at  least 
seemed  deliberate,  hung  up  the  telephone  receiver. 
Her  eyes  did  not  relinquish  his. 

"You?    How  did  you  get  in?" 

"The  door  was  unlatched." 

"That  careless  Mattie  again!" 

"So,  you  have  a  safe-deposit  box  with  papers  in 
it?  What  papers?  Who  was  that  telephoning?" 

She  smiled  pityingly,  shrugged  her  shoulders,  and 
turned  away,  the  ruffles  of  her  dove-colored  dressing- 
gown  slowly  tumbling  after  her. 

"Well,  my  dear,  it  was  Montmorrissy  telephoning, 


MARIE  199 

and  'the  papers'  are  my  contract.  I  should  hate  to 
have  your  disposition!" 

She  soon  took  to  parrying  such  attacks  with  insinu- 
ations of  her  own — then,  forcing  the  fighting,  always 
managed  to  get  in  the  first  thrust.  Felix,  on  the 
defensive,  had  to  free  himself  from  the  most  extraor- 
dinary accusations.  He  was  compelled  to  account 
for  every  hour  of  his  time — to  tell  her  whom  he  had 
met,  where  he  had  lunched,  what  streets  he  had 
passed  through.  She  declared  that  he  flirted  with 
every  girl  in  sight;  she  harped  on  "that  black-haired 

woman,  that  old  flame  of  his,"  whom  she  "knew  all 

/ 

about."  Their  squabbles  invariably  ended  with 
the  cry: 

"I'm  sure  you're  dying  to  go  straight  back  to  your 
black-haired  friend!  Very  well,  run  on!  I  suppose 
I  shall  survive  it." 

She  knew,  no  doubt,  that  he  never  dared  to  leave 
her  presence  without  patching  up  their  quarrel. 

At  the  coming  of  autumn,  he  remembered  the 
September  of  the  previous  year. 

How  bright  had  seemed  the  promise  of  regions 
then  unexplored,  to-day  attained!  Had  he  not  told 
himself  that  happiness  lay  on  the  horizon  ?  He  had 
covered  the  ground,  had  reached  the  place  of  his 
desires,  to  find  the  horizon  as  far  away  as  ever. 

Pleasures,  it  seemed,  grew  vague  at  his  approach; 
at  his  embrace  they  melted  into  nothingness,  as 
nymphs — one  is  told — were  wont  to  do  when  in 
archaic  woods  surprised  at  twilight.  No  moment  of 
gratification  was  as  he  had  pictured  it. 


200  PREDESTINED 

When  had  he  been  really  happy? 

One  dull  October  day,  he  entered  Washington 
Square,  sat  down  upon  a  bench,  looked  northward 
toward  Fifth  Avenue  and  the  Ferrol  house. 

Clouds  of  pulverized  plaster  enveloped  the  familiar 
dwelling.  Through  that  pall  loomed  dump-carts, 
scaffolds,  laborers  in  canvas  overalls.  The  upper 
story  was  gone;  the  house  was  being  torn  down. 

He  walked  slowly  away.  Round  his  feet  flut- 
tered withered  leaves,  such  as  old  men  near  by,  in 
faded  blue,  were  feebly  raking  into  little  heaps. 

He  saw,  on  another  path,  a  woman  looking  at  him, 
hesitating  timidly.  Her  large,  lustrous  eyes  woke 
memories.  Was  it  she  who  had  interrupted  his 
supper-party  on  Christmas  eve  ?  The  woman  made 
up  her  mind  to  bow.  Yes,  it  was  she.  He  raised 
his  hat,  passed  on,  and  soon  forgot  her. 

Considerably  before  his  usual  hour,  Felix  reached 
the  hotel  in  Lincoln  Square.  Passing  through  the 
lobby,  he  entered  an  elevator — one  of  two  that  ran 
up  and  down  in  the  same  shaft.  The  cars  passed 
each  other  in  mid-air.  Felix  caught  a  glimpse  of  a 
thin-shouldered,  pale  young  man  in  brown,  weighing 
in  one  hand  a  bulky  packet  of  letters  at  which  he 
was  gazing  with  a  sneer. 

It  was  Mortimer  Fray. 

A  gush  of  blood  blinded  Felix  and  almost  raised 
him  off  his  feet. 

"Stop  the  car!    Take  me  down  again." 

He  stepped  out  into  the  lobby,  glared  round, 
gained  the  street  entrance,  confronted  the  carriage- 


MARIE  201 

starter.  "Yes,  a  strange  gentleman  in  a  brown  suit 
had  left,  this  very  moment,  in  a  hansom." 

The  fellow,  his  weather-beaten  face  exhibiting 
solicitude,  made  bold  to  add: 

"You  don't  look  well,  sir.  Begging  your  pardon, 
you'd  best  have  a  little  something  for  it." 

Felix  turned  away.  In  the  lobby,  people  were 
moving  quietly  to  and  fro  on  their  sane  affairs.  They 
recalled  him  to  himself.  What  had  he  thought  to  do 
in  such  a  place? 

The  reaction  to  common-sense  exhausted  him. 
With  an  effort,  he  made  his  way  upstairs  and  appeared 
before  Marie. 

She,  turning  from  the  window,  stared  at  him 
aghast. 

"What  is  it?    What  has  happened?" 

If  he  told  her  anything  of  Fray,  he  would  be  drained 
forthwith  of  every  secret  in  his  life — the  stories  of 
Eileen,  of  Nina,  worst  of  all,  of  his  ruined  prospects. 
Throwing  himself  into  a  chair,  he  answered: 

"Just  an  old  enemy  I've  run  across.  What  of 
that?  The  world  is  full  of  enemies." 

She  approached  him  slowly,  hesitated,  then  knelt 
beside  him.  She  looked  away.  She  uttered,  as  if 
suffocating: 

"Not  here,  Felix." 

His  heart  was  touched. 

"No,  not  here,  Marie." 

Presently  he  clasped  her  close.  Something  crackled 
in  the  bosom  of  her  dress. 


202  PREDESTINED 

"What  was  that?"  he  asked,  listlessly. 
She  closed  her  eyes. 

' '  That  ?    I  don't  know.    It  must  be  my  last  week's 
salajy." 


CHAPTER  X 

IN  the  bleak  transparency  of  public  parks  and  the 
early  dusk  pierced  by  a  thousand  lofty  window  lights, 
in  the  quickened  activity  of  amusement  districts  and 
the  return  of  elegance  to  finer  thoroughfares,  Felix 
saw  only  uneventful  repetition.  At  last,  even  amid 
excess  he  had  discovered  monotony. 

Sometimes  he  was  tormented  by  unconscionable 
desires. 

He  dreamed  of  environments  remote  in  place  and 
time,  freed  from  all  the  restraints  of  modern,  civilized, 
or  even  rational,  society,  in  which  abandonment  to 
pleasure  had  reached  transcendence.  His  mind's  eye 
perceived  such  pictures  as  took  shape  round  banquet 
tables  in  the  Golden  House  of  Nero,  where,  on  a  dais 
rising  like  an  island  from  a  sea  of  revellers,  the  im- 
perial purple  was  smothered  beneath  rose-petals, 
ivory-white  arms,  and  gold  dust  shaken  from  di- 
shevelled locks.  Or  else  his  fancy  conjured  up  the 
Hanging  Gardens  of  Babylon,  in  which  the  dawn, 
as  if  stealing  over  a  field  where  had  been  waged  to 
the  death  some  appalling  combat  of  the  senses,  struck 
through  a  reek  of  incense  fumes  upon  an  acre  of 
spilled  wine,  torn  garlands,  fallen  diadems,  prone 
bodies  laden  with  barbaric  jewels  and  gleaming 

under  silvery  meshes  and  nets  of  threaded  pearls. 

203 


204  PREDESTINED 

How  tremendous,  yet  how  exquisitely  embellished, 
the  debaucheries  of  those  pagan  times!  Again,  and 
now  for  a  new  reason,  the  young  man  was  rendered 
melancholy  by  thought  of  epochs  ended  so  many 
centuries  too  soon.  A  longing  for  irrevocable  days 
made  his  eyes  swim  with  tears. 

By  persistent  excitation  of  his  nerves,  Felix  had 
increased  his  emotional  instability  till  trifling  thoughts 
were  able  to  rouse  in  him  not  only  ardors,  but  also 
irritation,  anger,  fear,  despondency.  Since  his  equi- 
librium was  now  so  easily  upset,  any  sudden  crisis  in 
which  he  had  especial  need  of  calmness  was  sure  to 
catch  him  at  a  disadvantage.  Marie,  armed  cap-a- 
pie  with  self-possession,  had  the  best  of  him  in  every 
clash. 

Their  altercations  increased  in  frequency  and  vio- 
lence. For  Felix's  jealousy  grew  with  Marie's  popu- 
larity. 

As  he  observed  the  development  of  public  interest 
in  her,  it  seemed  to  him  that  he  was  already  sharing 
something  of  her  with  a  host  of  others.  When  he 
considered  those  who  now  made  a  point  of  greet- 
ing her  courteously  everywhere — men  of  affairs,  of 
money,  of  accomplished  deeds — he  was  consumed 
with  fear:  if  it  came  to  the  worst,  what  rivalry  could 
he  oppose  to  them?  In  hours  when  the  green  por- 
tieres had  been  drawn  against  the  world,  his  appre- 
hensions wrung  from  him  the  cry: 

"Swear  that  you  love  me  and  no  one  else!" 

"Foolish,  foolish  boy!  Must  I  still  swear  to  that? 
Will  you  never  be  sure  ?  Why  do  you  look  at  me  so  ?  " 


MARIE  205 

What  was  more  nearly  Sphynx-like  than  the  face  of 
the  beloved,  when  seen  through  the  film  of  jealousy? 
What  was  behind  those  eyes  that  stared  straight  into 
his,  while  the  lips,  barely  moving,  uttered  reassuring 
words?  Those  eyes,  were  they  false?  Those  lips, 
did  they  lie?  How  could  he  be  sure  of  her  so  close 
to  him,  yet — because  speech  and  visage  can  hide 
everything — so  remote? 

Frequently,  unable  to  contain  himself  on  feeling 
conjecture  turning  to  conviction,  he  charged  her 
incoherently  with  all  the  infamies  of  his  imagination. 
His  fury  distorted  her  before  his  eyes:  she,  whose 
every  feature  he  had  but  a  little  while  before  adored, 
took  on  the  appearance  of  a  perfidious  enemy.  He 
could  almost  have  throttled  this  woman  just  released 
from  his  arms. 

Marie,  leaning  back,  turning  up  her  eyes  des- 
pairingly, would  utter,  in  shocked  accents: 

"Good  heavens,  what  a  wicked  heart  he  has! 
What  insanity!" 

"I  won't  afflict  you  with  it  any  longer!" 

"No  doubt  that's  the  best  thing." 

"Good-by!" 

But  within  the  hour  he  had  returned,  exhausted, 
crushed,  to  save  the  fragments  of  his  pride  mumbling 
something  about  "his  promise,  made  long  ago,  not 
to  leave  her  alone." 

Disregarding  that  rigmarole,  turning  from  him 
with  a  hopeless  gesture,  she  retorted: 

"And  your  insults,  that  you  forget?  What  have  I 
done  to  deserve  them?" 


206  PREDESTINED 

"It  was  my  love  for  you  that  made  me,  as  you  say, 
insane.  Surely  you'll  forgive  me  on  that  account?" 

But  she  held  him  off  with  her  white  arms,  the 
strength  of  which  invariably  surprised  him.  Her 
resolute  face  was  like  the  countenance  of  an  outraged 
divinity. 

"You  were  wrong?    You  were  wicked?" 

"Yes,  yes!  I  was  wrong.  I  treated  you  ter- 
ribly!" 

"More  terribly  than  you  suspect.  Such  words 
leave  scars.  Afterward,  it's  never  quite  the  same." 

"Ah,"  he  cried,  in  acute  distress,  "don't  say  that, 
Marie!" 

So  each  reconciliation  left  her  stronger,  him 
weaker. 

It  was  he  who  now  harped  on  "a  little  place,  far 
away,  amid  trees  and  roses,  just  for  two."  All  his 
instinctive  scruples  had  succumbed  to  passion;  he 
was  ready  to  pay  the  price  implied  for  surcease  of 
anxiety.  As  one  lost  in  the  desert  gazes  toward  the 
flowering  mirage,  so  Felix,  in  the  city,  contemplated 
the  thought  of  some  remote,  verdant  region  where 
the  haze  of  evening,  gemmed  with  infrequent,  mellow 
twinklings,  might  wrap  him  gradually  in  peace.  Who 
knew  but  that  in  such  a  spot  two  hearts  might  be 
renewed — two  natures,  beneath  the  solemn  spread 
of  stars,  together  turn  to  simple  and  immaculate 
desires?  An  end,  then,  at  any  rate,  to  the  theatre 
and  its  publicity,  to  Broadway  and  its  provocations — 
no  more  thereafter  of  associates  such  as  Nora 
Llanelly  and  Noon! 


MARIE  207 

Marie  had  come  to  share  at  least  a  part  of  his 
antipathy.  She  was  beginning  to  dislike  Nora. 

When  alone  with  Felix,  she  mimicked  maliciously 
her  old-time  friend's  coquettish  airs,  impetuous  table 
manners,  unconscious  illiteracy,  satisfaction  in  con- 
spicuous attire.  If  Nora  presented  herself  in  a  par- 
ticularly striking  costume,  Marie,  scrutinizing  her 
every  appurtenance  in  a  single  glance,  would  exclaim, 
"My  dear,  isn't  that  the  hat  you  wore  in  'The  Lost 
Venus'?"  or,  "Oh,  my  dear,  you  must  really  put 
those  violets  out!"  Miss  Llanelly  received  such 
thrusts  in  bewilderment.  If  she  chanced  to  take 
offence,  it  was  only  for  a  moment ;  with  her,  flushes 
of  mortification  were  succeeded  by  good-humored 
smiles  as  quickly  as  in  children's  faces.  She  appeared 
to  have  no  place  in  her  broad  bosom  for  rancor;  she 
had  even  forgiven  Marie  her  professional  success. 
One  evening,  she  informed  Felix  confidentially  that 
Marie  was  "getting  cranky  on  account  of  overwork." 
The  girl  should  have  left  "The  Silly  Season"  for  a 
little  vacation  when  cold  weather  forced  the  review 
from  the  Trocadero  roof  down  into  the  auditorium. 

Marie's  disfavor  did  not  as  yet  extend  to  Noon. 
She  had  discreet  smiles  for  all  his  anecdotes,  intelli- 
gent attention  for  his  discursions  in  aesthetics,  keen 
interest  in  his  reports  of  speculation.  He  obtained 
her  ear  especially  when,  leaning  well  across  a  table 
with  cigar  smoke  curling  round  his  jowls,  he  described 
to  her,  between  involuntary  twitchings  of  his  head, 
the  career  she  might  have  on  the  stage,  did  theatrical 
managers  but  realize  her  capabilities. 


208  PREDESTINED 

"Any  one  ought  to  see  what  you  could  do  if  you 
had  a  proper  chance.  I'm  continually  talking  about 
it  to  Montmorrissy." 

That  personage  was  planning  to  produce  in  mid- 
winter, at  the  Castle  Theatre,  a  new  musical  extrav- 
aganza called  "The  Queen  of  Hearts."  This  being 
a  side  venture,  in  which  he  was  experimenting  with 
some  unknown  authors  and  musical  composers,  he 
wanted  to  fill  the  stage  with  inexpensive,  if  unnoted, 
actors.  One  day,  Noon  burst  in  upon  Marie  and 
Felix,  flourishing  cane  and  gloves,  his  cigar  point 
threatening  his  eyebrows,  his  long  coat-tails  in  com- 
motion. He  had  just  left  Montmorrissy!  The  parts 
in  "The  Queen  of  Hearts"  were  all  assigned!  The 
prima  donna's  role  was  Marie's! 

Noon's  grin  seemed  to  add  for  him,  "Thanks 
chiefly  to  me."  Felix  wished  that  the  fellow  had 
dropped  dead  with  his  tidings  in  his  throat.  There, 
as  he  watched  the  light  of  ambition  blaze  up  in 
Marie's  eyes,  his  dreams  of  escape  into  the  country- 
side disintegrated.  He  saw  himself,  in  future  as  in 
present,  the  prisoner,  the  victim,  of  the  city. 

And  the  city,  as  he*  now  knew  it,  was  already  taking 
heavy  tribute  of  him. 

His  excesses  were  depriving  him  of  an  accurate 
conception  of  propriety,  in  regard  not  only  to  his 
conduct,  but  also  to  his  literary  efforts. 

It  befell  that  a  girl  friend  of  Marie's  suddenly  died. 
Into  the  chamber  of  death,  banked  with  flowers  sent 
by  contrite  women,  came  hurrying  half  a  dozen 
saddened  men,  all  well-to-do,  strangers  each  to  each, 


MARIE  269 

who,  meeting  in  the  fragrant  gloom,  stared  at  one 
another,  at  first  indignantly,  then  suspiciously,  finally 
sheepishly.  The  secrets  that  the  fair  deceased  had 
kept  in  life  were  there  revealed. 

"What  a  tale!"  thought  Felix.  "How  full  of  the 
irony  of  existence,  how  human,  how  beautiful!"  He 
rushed  off  to  the  studio,  seized  pen  and  paper,  and 
commenced  what  he  believed  was  going  to  be  the 
most  wonderful  short  story  in  the  world.  But  when 
he  had  written  half  a  dozen  pages,  there  came  to  him 
the  query: 

"What  magazine  in  this  country  would  print  it?" 

And  gloomily  he  remembered  a  great  public  whose 
sense  of  moral  proportions  he  had  once  shared,  but 
now  had  nearly  lost. 

Yet  he  was  long  in  realizing  that  the  cynicism 
developed  by  his  mode  of  living  was  affecting  his 
work.  The  ideas,  not  extraordinary  so  far  as  he 
could  see,  which  now  moved  him  to  exercise  his 
talents,  proved  to  be  such  as  editors  of  magazines 
regarded  with  distrust.  His  stories  came  back  to 
him;  from  the  envelopes  that  he  tore  apart  fluttered 
letters  of  regret,  instead  of  checks. 

By  such  rebuffs  Felix  was  plunged  into  despond- 
ency. Could  he  have  been  mistaken  in  himself? 
Were  all  his  dreams  of  eminence  to  result  in  nothing  ? 
His  energy  failed;  his  writing-table  grew  dusty;  his 
balance  at  the  bank  was  near  exhaustion. 

The  studio  in  West  Thirty-second  Street  became  a 
place  of  dying  aspirations.  Through  tedious,  gray 
days,  when  snow  in  its  descent  made  wavering 


210  PREDESTINED 

shrouds  about  the  windows,  Felix  bade  good-by 
forever,  as  he  thought,  to  his  most  precious  hopes. 
Stretched  on  a  divan,  he  seemed  to  see  passing  in  the 
twilight  all  the  pageantry  of  literary  genius's  crea- 
tions. There,  in  the  midst  of  apparitions  still  more 
vague,  showed  the  flame-licked  robes  of  Dante  and 
of  Virgil,  Don  Quixote's  basin-helm  and  cuirass,  the 
little  breast  of  Juliet,  Salammbo's  jewelled  forehead, 
the  ardent  eyes  of  Lucien  de  Rubempre,  whose  desire 
it  was  "to  be  famous,  to  be  loved."  Felix,  who  had 
so  vehemently  desired  love  and  fame,  watched  these 
phantoms — the  children  of  great  brains — glide  on 
athwart  the  shadows,  their  gaze  fixed  straight  ahead, 
their  pace  unhesitating,  their  ranks  already  full.  No 
place  among  them  for  another;  no  vigor  or  wit  to 
force  a  place!  He  turned  his  face  to  the  wall,  and, 
as  if  life  had  ended  there,  surrendered  to  despair. 
The  white  bull-terrier  thrust  a  cold  nose  against  his 
cheek. 

Felix  could  no  longer  bear  to  spend  an  hour 
unnecessarily  in  the  studio.  While  Marie  was  per- 
forming in  "The  Silly  Season,"  he  wandered  on 
Broadway.  Under  arc  lamps,  he  watched  crowds 
entering  theatres.  From  automobiles  stepped  young 
girls,  bareheaded,  slight,  trailing  fur-lined  cloaks  light 
blue  and  pink,  looking  round  with  the  eager  eyes 
of  innocence.  Felix  paused  to  contemplate  them, 
then  roused  himself,  passed  on,  and  entered  a  cafe". 

Every  night,  he  sought  systematically,  and  ob- 
tained, a  counterfeit  of  satisfaction,  a  false  jaunti- 
ness,  such  insensibility  as  bordered  on  oblivion. 


MARIE  211 

Sometimes,  he  moved  in  a  light-shot  mist  that,  clear- 
ing now  and  then,  revealed  the  supper-table  before 
him,  the  shirt  bosoms  of  waiters,  Marie's  white, 
square  chin  and  wandering  eyes,  men  rising  and 
bowing,  women  with  red  lips  slightly  curled  in  envy 
whispering  behind  their  glittering  fingers.  Between 
such  lucid  intervals,  Felix  had  little  accurate  knowl- 
edge of  his  conduct,  which,  however,  would  seem  to 
have  contained  itself  automatically  within  decorous 
bounds.  Occasionally,  his  whole  recollection  of  an 
evening  was  composed  of  insignificant  vignettes,  such 
as  a  moment's  conversation  with  a  stranger,  a  dis- 
pute— incited  by  Marie — about  a  supper-bill,  the 
joke  of  a  cab-driver,  the  pinched  face  of  a  child  from 
whom,  just  before  dawn,  he  had  bought  a  Sunday 
newspaper. 

Or  perhaps  he  was  late  in  reaching  the  theatre. 

The  surly  keeper  of  the  stage  door,  before  darken- 
ing the  hallway  and  locking  up,  was  taking  a  last  look 
in  a  cracked  mirror  at  a  wart-like  protuberance  on 
the  end  of  his  nose.  Enraged  at  being  discovered  in 
this  vanity,  the  fellow  growled  that  "she  had  gone, 
with  Mr.  Noon  or  some  one  else." 

Felix  had  a  sudden  faintness,  a  contraction  near 
the  solar  plexus,  a  touch  of  nausea.  He  hailed  a 
hansom  cab.  Hurried  from  one  restaurant  to  an- 
other, he  calmed  himself  with  an  effort  before  ques- 
tioning imperturbable  head  waiters. 

"Miss  Sinjon  left  here  half  an  hour  ago  with  Miss 
Llanelly  and  Mr.  Noon." 

He  breathed  again. 


212  PREDESTINED 

At  times,  he  pondered  his  condition  well-nigh 
impersonally.  "These  frail,  pale  creatures,  indeed! 
To  think  how  one  of  them,  whom  we  met  one  day 
long  ago  without  any  premonition,  can  become  at 
last  a  terrible  tyrant,  from  whose  tyranny  there  is  no 
escape!" 

In  the  loneliest  recesses  of  Central  Park,  sur- 
rounded by  melting  snow,  naked  underbrush  full  of 
evening  vapors,  gaunt  tree-tops  fading  to  a  blur 
against  the  dusk,  Felix  asked  himself  again  the  pur- 
poses of  human  sojourn.  In  withered  grasses  and 
dead  leaves  he  found  an  answer  sufficiently  pessi- 
mistic for  his  mood;  it  was  always  from  quickly- 
perishing,  apparently  vain  aspects  of  Nature  that 
he  now  drew  material  wherewith  to  construct  his 
theories. 

Darkness  drove  back,  from  distant  thickets,  the 
dog,  Pat,  muddy  and  scratched,  weary  after  foolish 
quests,  yet  with  wagging  tail  and  eager  tongue  dis- 
playing his  certainty  of  Felix's  caress.  The  master 
envied  the  dumb  beast. 

He  longed  for  a  sympathetic  confidant.  If  Paul 
Pavin,  at  whose  solicitude  he  had  snapped  his  fingers, 
were  only  near !  But  the  Frenchman  was  not  coming 
to  America  that  winter. 

To  Oliver  Corquill,  whom  he  met  by  chance  at  the 
entrance  of  the  park,  the  young  man  was  impelled  to 
relate  something  of  his  literary  reverses  and  his  dis- 
may. When  he  had  concluded  with  a  wholesale 
complaint  so  rambling  as  to  be  hardly  intelligible 
even  to  him,  the  novelist  said,  kindly: 


MARIE  213 

"Why  not  come  away  with  me  for  a  month's 
shooting  in  Maine?" 

The  forest  fastnesses!  Then,  remembering  Marie, 
he  answered  that  he  could  not  afford  it.  Corquill 
offered  to  lend  him  a  couple  of  hundred  dollars. 

A  thrill  passed  through  Felix's  body.  He  stam- 
mered his  thanks. 

" Then  you'll  come?" 

"Why,  the  fact  is,  if  your  offer  held  good  anyhow, 
I  could  work  here  now,  I  think." 

The  light  in  Corquill's  eyes  was  extinguished. 

"As  you  choose." 

That  was  a  narrow  escape:  the  balance  at  the 
bank  was  overdrawn!  But  what  was  two  hundred 
dollars?  Felix,  with  the  effrontery  of  desperation, 
penetrated  Broad  Street  and  called  on  Mr.  Wickit. 

He  was  admitted  into  the  office  carpeted  with  green 
Wilton,  full  of  black  tin  boxes  and  volumes  bound  in 
yellow  leather.  The  gray-haired  lawyer,  without 
rising,  pointed  to  a  mahogany  chair.  His  angular, 
sallow  face  did  not  relax;  his  sharp  eyes  examined 
rapidly  the  visitor's  physiognomy  and  clothing. 
Felix,  once  in  the  presence  of  this  glum-visaged  cred- 
itor, wondered  what  madness  had  impelled  him 
thither.  He  had  difficulty  in  beginning  his  prelim- 
inary speech,  which,  as  he  uttered  it,  appeared  to 
him  absurd. 

"Perhaps,  by  this  time,  it  had  been  found  that 
there  was  at  least  a  little  money  due  him?  He 
seemed  to  remember  that  Mr.  Wickit  had  written 
him  some  sort  of  note,  which  he  had  been  prevented 


214  PREDESTINED 

from  answering  by  various  misfortunes.  Could  the 
lawyer  have  communicated  with  him  on  account  of 
good  news  ?  Felix  sincerely  hoped  so :  a  young  man 
did  not  find  money  growing  on  bushes  in  a  big  city." 

Mr.  Wickit,  assuming  a  smile  of  commiseration, 
explained : 

"My  dear  sir,  there  is  nothing  new  in  regard  to 
your  poor  father's  estate.  The  three  letters  that  I 
wrote  to  you,  over  a  year  ago,  were  about  quite 
another  matter." 

Felix,  with  burning  cheeks,  plunged  into  his  next 
manoeuvre. 

"Then  it  was  about  the  thousand  dollars?  You 
shall  have  it,  at  the  earliest  possible  moment.  I've 
not  done  so  well  as  I  expected.  Indeed,  I'm  wonder- 
ing where  my  current  expenses  are  to  come  from. 
But  when  I  get  a  start— 

"I  understand.  However,  you  can  hardly  expect 
me  to  do  anything  further  in  that  line?" 

Felix,  rising,  his  spirits  in  his  boots,  made  haste 
to  murmur  denial  of  such  a  thought.  The  lawyer's 
last  comment,  dryly  delivered,  was: 

"What  a  pity  you  threw  away  your  chance  with 
Mrs.  Droyt." 

"With  whom?" 

"Mrs.  Denis  Droyt,  of  course.  Miss  Ferrol  that 
was." 

Felix,  toiling  home  through  the  falling  snow,  had  in 
payment  for  his  pains  this  new  chagrin. 

And  he,  who  had  practically  thrown  them  into 
each  other's  arms,  who  was  responsible  for  the  amal- 


MARIE  215 

gamation  of  their  two  fortunes,  remained  at  his  wits' 
end  for  money !  He  even  requested  a  loan  of  Noon. 

The  speculator  reluctantly  produced  from  his  fat 
wallet  fifty  dollars.  But  on  a  second  occasion,  clear- 
ing his  throat  deliberately,  looking  fixedly  at  some 
distant  object,  he  rumbled: 

"I  haven't  got  it  on  me." 

Felix  went  to  a  pawnshop  on  Sixth  Avenue. 

When  within  sight  of  the  three  gilt  balls  suspended 
over  the  doorway,  he  slackened  his  pace,  and  began 
to  look  intently  into  shop  windows.  Arriving  before 
the  pawnbroker's  showcases,  he  stopped,  simulated 
interest,  put  on  a  whimsical  smile — at  last,  as  if  seized 
with  a  playful  desire  for  exploration,  marched  boldly 
in.  When  the  dejected-looking  customers  had  all 
departed,  he  produced,  with  a  sensation  of  shame,  a 
pair  of  valuable  cuff-links.  The  niggardly  estimate 
of  the  usurer  amazed  him. 

His  watch  and  fob,  pearl  shirt-buttons,  rings, 
cravat-pins,  and  gold  cigarette-case,  were  one  by  one 
relinquished  in  the  little,  cluttered  shop,  where  the 
air,  as  it  seemed  to  Felix,  was  charged  with  hostility 
generated  through  years  of  heartless  bargaining  and 
sullen  acquiescence.  He  told  Marie  that  his  watch 
was  being  repaired,  or  that  Noon's  parade  of  precious 
stones  had  disgusted  him  with  jewelry. 

Marie  compressed  her  lips. 

If  he  could  only  confess  to  her  his  long-continued 
fraud,  implore  forgiveness,  patience,  temporary  fru- 
gality, enlist  such  compassionate  support  as  ought  to 
issue  from  true  love !  But  the  many  cynical  concep- 


2i6  PREDESTINED 

tions  engendered  by  his  jealousy  had  so  affected  him, 
that  now  he  was  never  sure  enough  of  her  attachment 
to  put  so  great  a  strain  upon  it.  To  reveal  to  her, 
who  had  already  learned  his  every  temperamental 
shortcoming,  all  his  material  inadequacies  as  well, 
would,  he  felt,  have  been  to  strip  himself  of  his  last 
worldly  value.  Constantly  dreading  formidable  ri- 
valry, he  continued  his  deceit :  he  went  on  regretting 
glibly  that  "his  family  estate  was  not  yet  in  his 
hands,"  or  that  "his  quarterly  income  was  used  up 
too  soon."  While  adding  invention  to  invention,  he 
trusted  that  Providence  would  shower  him  in  the 
nick  of  time,  as  formerly,  with  some  miraculous 
windfall. 

Once,  in  the  midst  of  his  distraction,  he  asked  him- 
self, was  he  not  greatly  like  some  antique  devotee  of 
Moloch,  who,  before  a  towering,  brazen  image  of  the 
divinity,  hurled  into  the  flames  his  treasure,  his  birth- 
right, his  very  offspring,  while  adoring,  half  in  terror, 
half  in  aberrant  ecstasy,  the  impassive  idol  which 
was  to  pay  him  for  his  sacrifice  in  currency  of  ruin 
and  blighted  hopes? 

But  from  the  full  measure  of  his  sacrifice  Felix 
coilld  see  no  way  of  escape.  Before  his  idol,  his  heart 
was  burning.  Long  practice  of  excess  had  driven 
from  his  mind  the  contemplative  and  comparative 
forms  of  thought  by  aid  of  which  the  temperate 
protect  themselves.  With  all  the  irrationality  of  the 
nervous  sufferer  clinging  ever  the  more  desperately 
to  that  which  threatens  his  destruction,  Felix  saw,  in 
a  world  full  of  distorted  images,  nothing  so  precious 


MARIE  217 

as  the  pellucid  skin,  the  fragrant  hair,  the  red  mouth 
of  the  beloved. 

On  her  return  home  tired  from  a  day's  rehearsing, 
she  occupied  the  couch,  while  Felix,  sitting  beside 
her,  gazed  into  her  face.  Her  quivering  lashes,  her 
pulsing  throat,  the  almost  imperceptible  flush  that 
gathered  round  her  cheek-bones,  were  for  him  ex- 
traordinary manifestations.  A  mist  obscured  his 
sight;  in  a  choked  voice  he  uttered: 

"Don't  move!    How  beautiful  you  are  now!" 

And,  afflicted  with  faintness,  hypnotized,  as  it  were, 
by  her  glimmering  face,  he  stammered  that  she  was 
like  a  lily  drooping  from  its  own  sweetness — that  the 
room  was  filled  with  an  indefinable,  perilous  emana- 
tion of  her  beauty. 

At  this  flattery,  gently  she  shook  her  head,  then, 
opening  her  eyes,  gave  him  a  prolonged,  humid  look. 
A  beam  of  light  gradually  bisected  the  shadows  of 
the  ceiling;  the  door  swung  open;  Mattie,  the  maid, 
tiptoed  in  to  light  the  lamp  and  arrange  her  mistress's 
coiffure.  Becoming  proficient  at  this  office,  she  had 
finally  replaced  Miriam.  The  hairdresser  had  re- 
ceived her  discharge  with  resentment. 

Window-shades  were  drawn;  the  dressing-table 
was  illumined ;  odors  of  heated  hair  and  brilliantine 
were  spread  about.  While  at  work,  the  mulatto, 
shrugging  her  shoulders,  recounted  in  scornful  tones 
whatever  she  had  gleaned  from  other  servants  con- 
cerning the  spite  of  actresses  to  whom  Marie  had 
been  preferred.  The  mistress,  with  an  inscrutable 
smile,  remarked: 


218  PREDESTINED 

"It  seems  I'm  finding  out  my  friends,  through 
'The  Queen  of  Hearts.'" 

Preparations  for  that  extravaganza  proceeded 
rapidly.  On  Marie's  dressing-table,  amid  the  silver 
and  the  perfumes,  were  now  always  scattered  the 
typewritten  pages  of  her  part;  her  songs,  roughly 
scored  by  hand,  trailed  over  the  piano.  She  spent 
hours  reiterating  musical  phrases  or  repeating  lines; 
she  always  paused  before  her  mirror  to  try  a  gesture 
or  to  practise  a  smile.  Sometimes,  Felix  entered  her 
parlor  to  find  her,  with  skirts  pinned  up,  posturing 
before  the  cheval-glass.  Noticing  him  only  by  a 
contraction  of  her  brows,  she  would,  perhaps,  press 
her  hands  against  her  breast,  and,  looking  upward 
with  a  sweet,  wondering  expression  of  innocence, 
exclaim,  in  a  clear  voice: 

"Is  it  a  dream?  Can  there  be  anything  so  lovely 
ir  the  world?" 

She  was  to  represent  a  sort  of  Cinderella,  a  found- 
ling discovered,  one  morning  after  a  terrific  storm, 
before  the  hut  of  an  old  witch  in  a  forest.  Brought 
up  a  drudge,  wearing  rags  which  could  not  hide  her 
charms,  whenever  her  taskmistress  was  elsewhere 
astride  a  broomstick  she  hugged  the  hearth,  dreamed 
of  the  unknown,  contrived  games  of  "make-believe" 
by  aid  of  a  pack  of  tattered  playing-cards.  One 
evening,  as  she  was  falling  asleep,  the  strewn  cards 
began  to  move,  to  grow,  to  change  into  strange,  living 
creatures.  They  thronged  round  her:  would  she 
come  with  them?  She  assented;  the  hut  dissolved, 
and,  in  its  stead,  appeared  a  dazzling  realm  called 


j 

MARIE  219 

"Cardland,"  where  rose  palaces  of  pasteboard  and 
minarets  of  poker  chips.  But  this  place,  where  all 
should  have  been  gay,  was  gloomy:  years  before,  a 
great  storm,  while  blowing  down  the  palaces,  had 
whisked  from  her  cradle  and  carried  off  the  new-born 
daughter  of  the  King  of  Hearts.  The  King  being 
forced  into  retirement  by  his  grief,  the  pack  was 
thenceforth  incomplete,  and  all  the  games  of  "Card- 
land"  had  to  be  abandoned.  However,  on  the  lost 
infant  there  had  been  hidden  beneath  swaddling- 
clothes  a  heart-shaped  birthmark ;  and  presently,  on 
the  fair  visitor  from  the  forest  this  birthmark  was,  in 
an  interesting  way,  discovered.  Forthwith,  the  King 
recovered,  and  the  deck  again  entire,  all  ended  with 
a  ballet  in  which,  amid  a  rain  of  golden  coins,  vari- 
ous combinations  of  poker  and  bridge  whist  were 
formed  by  the  evolutions  of  the  card  folk. 

Montmorrissy  did  not  know  how  his  public  would 
receive  so  innocent  a  conceit.  He  was  tempted  to 
interpolate,  by  way  of  precaution,  a  few  local, 
"up-to-date,"  indecorous  incidents.  Occasionally 
appearing  at  rehearsals,  he  watched  the  action  as 
narrowly  as  if  it  were  a  conspiracy  against  his  pocket- 
book. 

All  day  long  they  rehearsed  "The  Queen  of 
Hearts"  in  an  old  hall  on  Sixth  Avenue,  up  two 
flights  of  stairs,  using  a  loft  with  discolored  walls,  a 
low  ceiling  stained  by  leaks,  and  a  bare,  splintery 
floor.  Whenever  the  pianist,  hired  for  the  rehearsals, 
stopped  his  exertions,  one  could  hear  trains  rum- 
bling on  the  elevated  railway.  At  the  passage  of 


220  PREDESTINED 

expresses,  violent  concussions  shook  the  building; 
all  voices  were  drowned;  the  players  closed  their 
mouths,  dropped  their  arms,  and  waited. 

Felix  wondered  how  any  merit  could  be  evolved 
from  such  confusion  and  incertitude  as  were  there 
displayed.  The  diminutive  dancing-girls  called  "po- 
nies," in  their  blouses  and  short  skirts,  the  "show 
girls"  with  their  furs,  feathers,  and  gilt  purses,  the 
chorus  men  in  their  wasp-waisted  coats  slashed  with 
diagonal  pockets  according  to  a  Broadway  style,  the 
fat  comedian,  the  slender  tenor,  the  soubrette,  and 
Marie,  turned  helpless  eyes  toward  the  stage  man- 
ager. This  despot  seemed  to  contain  all  the  zeal 
and  intelligence  in  the  assembly.  With  his  coat 
off,  his  collar  wilted,  his  bald  head  shining,  he  fell 
back  in  scrutiny,  rushed  forward  in  reproof,  with  a 
word  corrected  erroneous  ideas,  with  a  gesture  con- 
jured up  imagination.  He  lumbered  round  the  room 
in  ironical  imitation  of  some  clumsy  "show  girl," 
listened  with  a  sarcastic  smile  to  the  enunciation  of 
choruses,  snatched  individuals  from  corners  where 
they  were  practising  dance-steps,  herded  the  com- 
pany together,  ordered  the  whole  act  begun  again. 
When  the  ordeal  was  ended,  he  declared,  to  Felix's 
amazement,  that  "the  thing  was  taking  shape." 

As  the  crowd  disintegrated,  girls  lingered  to  read, 
from  a  bulletin  tacked  on  the  door,  the  names  and 
prices  of  hotels  in  Boston.  The  extravaganza  was 
going  to  that  city  for  a  week  before  beginning  in 
New  York. 

Rehearsals  were  transferred  to  the  Castle  Theatre. 


MARIE  221 

On  the  stage  stripped  of  scenery,  with  oblong  frames 
of  canvas  piled  against  the  brick  wall  at  the  rear, 
the  performers,  used  to  rehearsing  in  a  hall,  had 
difficulty  in  manoeuvring  toward  the  centre  of  the 
footlights.  All  the  concerted  pieces  were  thrown 
into  confusion,  and  forty  young  women,  huddled 
together  awkwardly,  listened  with  vacuous  smiles  to 
the  rasping  voice  of  Montmorrissy  denouncing  them 
from  the  obscurity  of  the  auditorium. 

As  the  first-night  approached,  disquieting  rumors 
flew  about.  A  rival  manager,  from  whose  ranks 
Montmorrissy  had  wheedled  some  attractive  "show 
girls,"  was  going  to  retaliate  by  stealing  the  best 
"business"  of  "The  Queen  of  Hearts."  Moreover, 
at  the  last  moment  the  comedian  did  not  seem  suffi- 
ciently comic,  while  the  young  tenor,  Mackeron,  who 
was  having  trouble  with  his  throat,  could  not  bring 
himself  to  give  up  cigarettes.  In  the  wings,  a  boyish 
physician,  employed  to  look  after  the  "ponies"  when 
they  fainted  from  their  exertions,  was  always  spray- 
ing the  tenor's  larynx  with  an  atomizer. 

The  dress-rehearsal,  with  full  orchestra,  began  at 
midnight  on  Saturday  and  continued  without  inter- 
ruption till  late  Sunday  afternoon.  Marie  returned 
home  white  as  death,  with  purple  streaks  beneath 
her  eyes,  scarcely  able  to  talk.  "No  one  liked  the 
show.  Every  one  was  blue.  Monty  had  never  left 
off  growling.  So,  according  to  the  superstition,  it 
should  be  a  success." 

On  Monday  morning,  the  company  was  entrained 
for  Boston. 


22«  PREDESTINED 

In  the  resounding  railway  station,  Felix  said  good- 
by  to  Marie.  She  had  the  more  easily  dissuaded  him 
from  accompanying  her,  as  he  could  not  find  any- 
where funds  sufficient  for  a  week's  extravagance. 

Her  last  embraces  had  been  perfunctory ;  her  fare- 
well seemed  absent-minded.  Evidently,  her  every 
thought  reached  toward  the  future.  As  the  train 
rolled  forth,  she  was  busy  reminding  Montmorrissy 
of  "her  right  to  the  best  dressing-room." 

Felix  walked  downtown  in  dejection. 

How  empty  the  city  seemed!  Seven  days  of  lone- 
liness! And  then? 

Terror  seized  him.  He  was  utterly  cleaned  out, 
heavily  in  debt,  even  threatened  by  his  landlord  with 
eviction.  Now,  indeed,  Marie  seemed  on  the  point 
of  slipping  from  him.  Clenching  his  fists,  he  re- 
peated, desperately: 

"I  must  have  money!    I  must  have  money!" 

That  morning  he  resumed  his  writing.  But  so 
pressing  was  his  need,  and  so  great  his  fear  of  failure, 
that  his  labors  resulted  only  in  puerilities.  He  spent 
those  days  scribbling  feverishly,  tearing  up  pages, 
groaning  at  his  impotence.  Every  hour  he  wondered 
why  Marie  had  written  him  but  one  short  note,  why 
he  could  not  reach  her  by  the  long-distance  telephone, 
why  the  most  urgent  telegrams  failed  to  elicit  a 
response.  Perhaps  she  had  broken  down  from  over- 
work! Should  he  go  to  her?  Or  maybe  Mont- 
morrissy was  slashing  the  play  to  pieces,  and  she  was 
too  busy  to  think  of  him  ?  He  wrote  to  the  manager 
and  to  Mackeron  for  news. 


MARIE  223 

Late  on  the  night  before  "The  Queen  of  Hearts" 
was  expected  in  New  York,  the  door  of  the  studio 
burst  open:  Nora  Llanelly  entered. 

She  had  come  in  a  cab,  bareheaded,  wearing 
slippers,  with  a  long  blue  burnoose  thrown  over  a 
dressing-gown.  Her  eyelids  were  swollen;  her  nose 
was  red;  her  whole  face  was  blowsy  from  some 
tempestuous  grief.  She  leaned  against  the  door- 
jamb,  dishevelled,  wide-eyed,  breathless,  a  large 
apparition  at  once  imposing  and  alarming. 

Felix's  heart  stopped  beating.     He  cried  out: 

"What  has  happened  to  her!" 

Nora,  exposing  her  full  throat,  laughed  bitterly. 

"To  her?  Nothing!  It's  to  me  and  you  that  it's 
happened!" 

He  did  not  understand.  Exasperated,  she  leaned 
forward  and  shrilled  at  him,  with  breaking  voice: 

"For  God's  sake,  get  next  to  yourself!  And  you 
with  a  reputation  for  smartness!  Why,  I  can  see  it, 
now,  from  the  beginning — every  bit,  every  bit!" 
And  sinking  into  a  chair,  she  informed  him  that 
Noon,  whom  she  had  believed  to  be  in  Philadelphia 
on  business,  was  in  Boston.  The  thing  was  not  even 
surreptitious;  and  Miriam,  the  hairdresser,  to  whom 
all  scandalous  rumors  flew  like  homing  pigeons,  had 
just  decided  that  it  was  "a  duty"  to  enlighten  Miss 
Llanelly. 

"And  some  one  I've  known  all  my  life — that  I 
done  everything  for  when  she  was  up  against  it!" 
While  fumbling  for  a  handkerchief,  the  ex-"  show 
girl"  squeezed  her  inflamed  eyelids  together  in  order 


224  PREDESTINED 

to  keep  back  the  tears.  Her  face  slowly  faded  from 
Felix's  sight ;  her  voice  reached  him  from  afar. 

When  he  had  finally  got  rid  of  her,  he  gazed  about 
him  in  curiosity.  He  was  surprised  at  the  inexpli- 
cable oddity  of  his  surroundings.  He  peered  in  a 
mirror,  and  did  not  recognize  his  face. 

Through  the  night,  he  suffered  very  little.  His 
brain  seemed  anaesthetized. 

Toward  dawn,  the  aspect  of  trivial  objects,  during 
the  night  examined  many  times,  began  to  frighten 
him.  He  could  not  bear  to  look  steadily  at  anything. 
Was  he  losing  his  mind  ?  He  drank  whiskey,  and,  at 
last,  stumbling  off  to  bed,  found  relief  in  stupor. 

At  dusk,  he  awoke.  Mechanically  he  bathed  and 
dressed  himself;  blindly  he  walked  out;  and  pres- 
ently he  found  himself  at  Marie's  door.  The  mulatto 
maid  admitted  him,  and  disappeared.  He  parted 
the  green  portieres. 

Shadows  veiled  walls  and  ceiling;  but  from  the 
middle  of  the  room,  level  rays  of  light  reached  out 
and  dazzled  him.  She  was  there,  alone,  seated  be- 
yond the  bright  centre-table.  The  lamp  of  yellow 
porcelain  gleamed  between  them. 

Rising  to  her  feet,  she  held  herself  motionless. 
The  lamplight  illumined  her  slender  figure  from  the 
hips  upward,  and  the  lower  part  of  her  face.  He 
saw  clearly  her  parted  lips.  But  her  eyes,  her  brow, 
her  hair,  remained  indistinct. 

She  wore  a  new  dress  of  violet-colored  silk,  the  cor- 
sage decked  with  fringes  of  jet  beads.  Behind  her,  a 
large  hat,  to  match  this  costume,  lay  on  the  top  of 


MARIE  225 

the  piano.  Over  all  the  furniture  were  scattered 
garments  of  white  lace,  recently  unpacked.  The 
warm  air  was  redolent  of  benzoine  and  "peau 
d'Espagne." 

In  that  familiar  atmosphere,  evoking  with  its 
fragrance  innumerable  memories,  there  stole  into  his 
heart  a  poignant,  inappropriate  longing.  He  saw 
her  as  if  after  a  separation  of  years;  her  every  beauty 
was  rediscovered;  and  her  attire,  strange  to  him, 
seemed  to  invest  her  well-remembered  person  with 
an  additional  fascination — with  a  seductive  novelty. 
He  had  an  impulse,  almost  uncontrollable,  to  ignore 
the  past,  if  only  for  a  moment.  But,  perceiving  in 
the  lobes  of  her  ears  two  large  black  pearls,  he 
remained  as  before,  while  a  great  lassitude  invaded 
his  limbs. 

At  last,  a  sob  escaped  him,  and  the  words: 

"What  a  wretch  you  are!" 

In  low  tones,  she  retorted: 

"And  what  about  you?  What  about  your  deceits 
— your  stories  of  money  and  prospects  ?  Ah,  but  you 
got  round  me!  And,  like  a  fool,  I  believed  every- 
thing about  you  that  Llanelly  and  others  told  me. 
Little  they  knew!  But  I  know  now,  thanks  to  him. 
He  couldn't  keep  it  in  any  longer.  And  he  had  the 
right  of  it.  Yes,  I  find  that  he  was  your  father's 
confidential  business  man.  The  world's  a  small 
place!" 

He  stared  at  her  with  open  mouth,  incredulous. 
Harshly,  he  laughed: 

"That  rounder?" 


226  PREDESTINED 

Then,  as  her  eyes  flashed  at  him  through  the 
shadows,  he  realized  that  there  was  no  possibility  of 
further  and  more  shameful  weakness  on  his  part.  It 
was,  indeed,  finished. 

An  infinite  reproach  thrilled  his  utterance: 

"You  never  loved  me!" 

"No,  no;  don't  go  thinking  that  I  have  no  heart  at 
all.  I  got  very  fond  of  you,  Felix.  This  has  been 
hard  for  me.  But  there  are  things  in  the  world  that 
I've  never  had,  that  other  women  have,  that  I've  al- 
ways craved,  that  I  must  get.  And  life's  short.  And 
I've  thrown  the  last  fifteen  months  away.  And  now  I 
must  begin  again  nearly  where  I  was  when  I  met  you." 

Her  head  sank  backward :  she  seemed  to  be  staring 
fixedly  at  something  above,  visible  to  her  alone.  The 
darkness  had  invaded  her  whole  face,  which  took  on 
an  unreal,  an  awesome,  look.  For  Felix,  there  was 
in  her  countenance  something  terrible.  The  shadows 
round  her  eye-sockets,  her  mouth,  her  cheek-bones, 
were  like  an  insidiously  gathering  decay.  She  re- 
sembled Venus  in  dissolution. 

He  found  the  door.  The  latch  clicked  behind  him. 
He  had  fled  a  tomb. 

Near  street  lamps,  moisture  glittered  like  sus- 
pended folds  of  gauze.  Fog  was  closing  round 
illuminated  shop-windows,  to  blur  and  enlarge  the 
radiance  thereof.  At  a  distance,  before  spaces  trem- 
ulously luminous  and  all  reflected  in  the  wet  pave- 
ment, pedestrians,  indistinct,  outlined  by  yellow 
aureoles,  appeared  like  ghosts  floating  across  deep 
pools  of  light. 


MARIE  227 

Felix  turned  toward  the  park. 

The  trees,  in  the  mist  more  nebulous  than  the 
heavens,  were  gradually  pervaded  by  a  threnody  of 
falling  rain.  From  the  earth  rose  a  continuous  sibila- 
tion,  and  ripplings  which  suggested  mournful  voices. 

It  was  eight  o'clock  when  he  emerged  from  the 
darkness  at  Columbus  Circle.  Within  the  park  gates 
stood  a  small  pavilion,  open  on  all  sides,  furnished 
with  benches.  Felix,  dripping,  shivering,  worn  out, 
entered  this  shelter  and  sank  into  a  seat. 

Before  him,  in  the  centre  of  a  broad  stretch  of 
asphalt,  loomed  the  statue  of  Columbus  on  its  tall, 
granite  column.  Round  this  monument,  outside  a 
ring  of  green  lanterns  set  out  for  the  regulation  of 
traffic,  glided  an  interminable  flood  of  automobiles. 
Beyond,  rose  a  semicircle  of  buildings  gay  with 
lights,  their  roofs  crowned  with  electric  signs  the 
party-colored  globes  of  which  seemed  to  give  off 
fumes  into  the  lurid  sky.  At  the  right  of  this  semi- 
circle blazed  the  facade  of  the  Castle  Theatre. 

An  illuminated  device  two  stories  high,  heart- 
shaped,  blood-red,  proclaimed  Montmorrissy's  ex- 
travaganza. Underneath,  in  a  pale  sheen  blotted 
from  time  to  time  by  the  silhouettes  of  automobiles, 
surged  a  confusion  of  umbrellas,  silk  hats,  and 
women's  cloaks.  It  was  the  audience  assembling 
for  the  first-night. 

Gradually  the  crowd  penetrated  the  theatre.  The 
bright  vestibule  stood  empty.  A  clock  dial  on  the  cor- 
ner of  Fifty-ninth  Street  marked  half-past  eight.  She 
was  on  the  stage,  singing,  smiling  across  the  footlights. 


228  PREDESTINED 

The  young  man,  his  chin  sunk  forward  on  his 
breast,  turned  to  retrospection.  There  came  to  him 
a  remembrance  of  numberless  abasements,  losses, 
sacrifices.  What  anguish  had  he  not  suffered ;  what 
inestimable  treasures  had  he  not  thrown  away;  to 
what  straits  had  he  not  brought  himself!  Twisting 
his  mouth  into  a  bitter  grimace,  he  pronounced, 
slowly : 

"And  all  for  nothing!" 

It  was  the  epitaph  of  that  period. 


PART  THREE 
EMMA 


CHAPTER  XI 

His  sentimental  convalescence  was  retarded  by 
chagrin.  It  was  not  easy  to  recover  from  the  thought 
that  he,  though  all  aflame,  had  never  warmed  her 
heart. 

He  recalled  that  career  of  his  in  gullibility,  and 
imagined  the  ironical  applause  that  must  secretly 
have  greeted  it.     He  came  to  hate  the  scenes  of  his  ' 
humiliation,  each  remembrance  of  which  was  dis- 
torted by  a  savage  prejudice. 

There  took  shape  before  him  a  nocturnal  thorough- 
fare, disguising  its  shabbiness  with  a  glitter  of  colored 
lights,  where  automobiles,  bearing  women  flagrantly 
perilous  yet  immeasurably  ignoble  beneath  their 
finery,  drove  decency  into  the  gutters,  where  the 
pavements  disappeared  under  a  surge  of  neurasthenic 
men  penetrating  cafes  amid  the  flicker  of  bold  eyes, 
where  the  apertures  of  the  side  streets  were  filled  with 
shadows  of  a  predacious  restlessness,  while,  beneath 
the  aura  of  the  "Tenderloin" — a  thin  radiance  quiv- 
ering as  if  set  in  agitation  by  innumerable  spasms  of 
sick  nerves — was  disseminated  an  atmosphere,  which 
all  thereabouts  were  forced  to  breathe,  like  some 
vast,  enveloping,  enigmatically  perverse  temptation. 

Felix,  in  revulsion,  longed  for  his  old  contentment 
in  immaculate  and  simple  things,  for  the  tonic  reac- 

231 


232  PREDESTINED 

tions  from  intentions  Wholly  pure,  for  such  com- 
panionship as  should  be  but  a  commingling  of  sub- 
lime tendernesses.  And  he  seemed  to  see  a  billowy 
landscape,  wooded,  immersed  in  sunshine,  swallows 
skimming  over  lawns  at  the  approach  of  evening, 
then,  emerging  from  a  fading  sky,  the  round,  diaph- 
anous moon. 

But  in  the  midst  of  fine  resolutions  he  realized  that 
none  of  his  experiences  could  be  obliterated — that 
thenceforth  he  would  have  to  go  through  life,  however 
edifying  his  course,  with  something  of  the  past  dis- 
figuring him. 

Meanwhile,  he  had  yet  to  make  the  first  retrieving 
step.  His  pockets  were  empty;  he  had  pawned  all 
his  valuable  possessions ;  there  was  none  left  of  whom 
he  dared  ask  assistance.  His  landlord,  despairing 
of  six  months'  back  rent,  dispossessed  him. 

When  the  hour  came  for  him  to  leave  the  studio 
forever,  standing  beneath  the  skylight  he  gazed  round 
as  if  to  impress  upon  his  memory  each  trivial  object. 
The  worn  furniture  seemed  suddenly  replete  with 
sentimental  value.  A  flood  of  reminiscences  en- 
gulfed him:  he  pronounced,  slowly  and  gently,  three 
names,  "Nina,  Eileen,  Marie!"  They  had  all 
entered  there ;  something  of  their  diverse  sweetnesses 
remained  clinging,  as  it  were,  to  the  hangings  like 
faint,  mingling  perfumes;  and  all  their  physical  and 
moral  variations  were  confused,  at  that  blending  of 
many  memories  into  one  memory  diffuse  and  limit- 
less, to  him  more  exquisite,  mysterious,  and  fragrant 
than  a  garden  full  of  lilies  in  moonlight.  "Good- 


EMMA  233 

by,  old  room!"  He  felt  that  he  was  shutting  in 
there  something  of  himself — an  essence  which  would 
mingle  forever  with  an  impalpable  part  of  them,  that 
they  had  not  been  able  to  take  away.  "No;  what 
the  heart  gives,  it  cannot  wholly  get  back.  From 
love,  no  one  escapes  entire.  There  is  no  utter  rupt- 
ure, no  absolute  separation."  He  issued  into  Thirty- 
second  Street.  Pat,  the  white  bull-terrier,  leaped 
and  barked  to  find  himself  in  the  open. 

On  Washington  Square  South,  Felix  found  a  small 
hotel,  square,  flat-roofed,  built  of  green  brick,  six 
stories  high,  the  narrow  entrance  trimmed  with  ex- 
ceedingly thin  slabs  of  greenish  marble,  the  office 
furnished  with  four  chairs  and  two  brass  cuspidors, 
the  elevator  somewhat  larger  than  a  bird-cage. 
There,  on  the  fifth  floor,  he  obtained,  for  nine  dollars 
a  week,  a  bedroom  and  a  bath,  with  windows  open- 
ing on  the  square.  Beyond  a  rectilinear  expanse  of 
trees — their  nakedness  disclosing  asphalt  paths,  some 
wooden  shelters,  and  a  circular  fountain — past  the 
gray  bulk  of  the  Washington  Arch — a  monument  of 
Roman  contour,  strong  and  martial — midway  of  a 
row  of  three-story  brick  dwellings  with  white  win- 
dow frames  and  porticos,  appeared  the  beginning  of 
Fifth  Avenue:  a  vista,  stretching  northward,  where 
the  prim  roofs  of  conservative  gentlefolk  soon  gave 
place  to  the  "sky-scrapers"  of  trade,  and  at  the  right 
of  which,  a  mile  away,  above  a  crenellation  of  massive 
cornices,  was  thrust  into  the  air  a  marble  tower. 

From  his  bedroom  window  Felix  could  see  the 
site  of  the  Ferrol  house,  where  was  rising  against 


234  PREDESTINED 

clouds  a  black  steel  framework.  In  that  effacement, 
he  took  a  mournful  satisfaction.  He  was  relieved  of 
one  hitherto  persistent,  mute  reproach. 

Old  scenes  seemed  fated  to  enclose  him.  He  was 
forced  back  to  The  Evening  Sphere. 

The  vestibule  retained  its  odors  of  linoleum  and 
printer's  ink;  the  spiral  staircase  trembled  at  sub- 
terranean rumblings;  one  end  of  the  fourth  floor 
was  foggy  with  tobacco  smoke,  where  five  unwashed 
windows  admitted  over  a  swarm  of  profiles  a  diluted 
light.  An  edition  of  The  Evening  Sphere  was  going 
to  press.  Mechanics,  bare-armed,  tweaked  mats  of 
felt  from  metal  slabs;  "copy  boys"  scampered  to 
pneumatic  tubes ;  groups  huddled  round  form-tables ; 
young  reporters  sat  at  desks,  their  foreheads  sinking 
toward  their  speedy  pencils.  On  all  sides  rose  famil- 
iar faces:  Johnny  Livy  was  there,  waving  a  page  of 
manuscript  and  bellowing  to  be  relieved  of  it.  None 
had  time  to  notice  Felix. 

But  the  editor,  in  his  cupboard  of  an  office,  his 
coat  off,  his  knees  hidden  beneath  newspapers,  care- 
fully laid  down  his  cigar,  and  went  so  far  as  to 
extend  a  slender  hand.  In  his  delicate  face  a  sly 
pleasure  seemed  to  struggle  with  reserve.  He  did 
not  refrain  from  asking: 

"The  prodigal's  return?" 

"If  you'll  have  me,  sir." 

The  editor  seemed  on  the  point  of  some  compli- 
mentary utterance.  However,  he  recovered  just  in 
time  his  customary  caution. 

"What  salary  were  you  getting?" 


EMMA  235 

"Twenty-five  dollars." 

"So  much?  Well— all  right.  Report  to  the  city 
desk." 

In  a  week,  it  was  as  if  Felix  had  never  left  The 
Evening  Sphere.  He  resumed  a  hundred  old  habits 
of  obedience  and  work.  A  sense  of  retrogression 
wore  away ;  he  discovered  many  amiable  qualities  in 
his  co-workers,  from  whom  he  had  once  thought 
himself  remote  in  everything. 

He  smoked  a  pipe,  drank  beer,  and  often  lunched 
with  Livy,  the  reporter,  in  a  cafe  on  Fulton  Street, 
where  the  bill  came  to  half  a  dollar.  These  two  found 
themselves  much  more  congenial  than  formerly. 

The  lean,  jerky,  young  journalist  was  at  last  even 
tempted  to  confessions.  He  aspired  to  be  a  city 
editor,  "his  finger  marking  the  pulse-beat  of  New 
York";  he  wanted  to  marry,  to  live  in  a  suburban 
cottage,  with  a  baby-carriage  on  the  porch,  dogs  on 
the  step,  and  chickens  in  the  yard.  But  many  turned 
their  eyes  toward  the  city  editor's  desk,  and  Livy  had 
few  opportunities  to  meet  "nice"  girls.  However, 
he  expounded  a  theory  that  one  got  what  he  set  his 
mind  on.  There  was  only  one  thing  to  beware  of, 
namely,  liquor.  And,  while  returning  officeward 
with  Felix  from  the  cafe,  he  would  point  out  some 
elderly  waif,  drifting  beneath  the  bulletin-boards  of 
the  newspaper  offices,  gray-headed,  ragged,  half  tipsy, 
who  had  once  been  a  "star  reporter."  Felix  felt 
deep  in  his  breast  a  thrill  of  fear. 
.  Innumerable  past  satiations,  remorses,  and  dis- 
gusts, had  united  finally  to  effect  in  him,  as  he  be- 


236  PREDESTINED 

lieved,  a  permanent  repugnance,  an  utter  disillusion- 
ment, an  epochal  upheaval  of  the  conscience.  His 
old  arguments  in  favor  of  self-denial  had  recurred  to 
him.  He  even  thought  himself,  at  last,  in  sympathy 
with  those  ascetics  whose  philosophies  had  once  an- 
noyed him.  There  emerged  from  the  phantasma- 
goria of  history,  as  if  to  tempt  his  emulation,  a  sort 
of  cenobitic  pageant  of  the  ages,  wherein  appeared 
the  multitudes  of  the  world's  exalted  souls,  wherein 
swam  together  countless  faces  illumined  by  renunci- 
ation, wherein  myriads  of  hands  fluttered  to  make 
every  manner  of  devotional  sign,  while  on  all  sides 
the  emblems  of  abnegatory  cults  rose  and  drooped  in 
time  to  an  air-shaking  diapason  of  resolute  voices. 

Yet  Felix  soon  gazed  on  this  vision,  as  he  had 
gazed  on  that  of  the  lost  pagan  frenzies  of  the  flesh, 
in  a  preoccupation  intrinsically  all  sensuousness. 
He  considered  less  the  renouncers  of  the  world  than 
what  they  had  renounced;  and  the  pleasures  spurned 
by  them  were  so  gilded  over  with  the  romance  per- 
taining to  old  things  as  to  bear  no  visible  relation 
to  their  modern  counterparts.  Felix,  who  now  ex- 
pressed abhorrence  of  debauchery  in  his  own  place 
and  time,  dreamed  of  cities  anathematized  by  antique 
saints,  over  which  Astarte,  like  the  chimera  of  a 
colossal  courtesan — her  brow  diademmed  with  stars, 
her  pallor  looming  under  veils  of  smoky  indigo  that 
filled  the  night — spread  on  the  evening  winds  the 
aphrodisiacal  perfume  of  her  sigh,  to  pervade  all 
mortals  with  her  madness.  In  short,  Felix  would 
have  liked  just  then  to  be  Paphnutius  praying  in  his 


EMMA  237 

cell,  but  would  have  wished  to  think,  while  praying, 
of  Thai's  dropping  her  mantle  in  the  Alexandrian 
theatre. 

So  it  was  with  backward  looks  that  the  young  man 
bade  farewell  to  all  his  faults. 

But  presently,  there  succeeded  his  first  satisfaction 
feelings  of  solitude.  Tremendous  spaces,  as  in  track- 
less seas,  encompassed  him;  doubts  obscured,  like 
leaden  clouds,  the  horizon  where  he  had  thought  to 
find  his  haven:  land  was  not  there;  he  had  thrown 
overboard  all  the  palliatives  of  an  earthly  voyage; 
and,  his  brain  reeling  in  a  hurricane  of  longings,  he 
anticipated  shipwreck  for  that  venture. 

"Perhaps  his  sacrifices  had  been  made  too  vio- 
lently?" 

At  this  gust,  he  capsized. 

With  robust  and  reckless  independence,  he 
marched  into  a  cafe.  Next  morning,  he  was  unable 
to  appear  at  the  newspaper  office. 

Felix  then  got  the  idea  that  by  very  gradually 
reducing  his  indulgences  he  could,  without  discom- 
fort, bring  them  to  the  vanishing-point.  This  sys- 
tem never  seemed  so  plausible  as  when,  alone  in  some 
obscure  cafe,  a  long  cigar  between  his  teeth,  a  glass  of 
whiskey  and  soda  in  his  hand,  he  saw  his  surroundings 
develop  values  previously  unsuspected.  Once  more 
life  was  ephemerally  embellished;  aspirations  came 
thronging,  and,  at  the  utter  dissolution  of  the  common- 
place, he  seemed  to  glimpse  the  magnificent,  unde- 
cipherable object  of  all  human  yearning.  Those  were 
rare  hours,  such  as  he  could  not  frequently  afford. 


238  PREDESTINED 

Little  by  little,  the  workaday  present  obscured  the 
romantic  past.  At  length,  he  found  it  impossible  to 
recall  distinctly  Marie's  face.  He  was  conscious  of 
no  more  than  a  fair  aureole,  indefinitely  representing 
perfidy  wrapped  up  in  passion,  evoking  a  bitterness 
inextricable  from  a  lurking  sweetness. 

Felix  was  always  remembering,  however,  his  in- 
debtedness to  Noon,  at  thought  of  whom  he  could 
summon  no  certain  feeling  save  of  humiliation. 

He  examined  his  half-finished  novel,  begun  a  year 
before.  It  dealt  with  a  girl  of  lowly  origin,  pursuing, 
through  a  gloomy  region  of  abysses,  the  ignis  fatuus 
of  honest  love.  Felix  destroyed  that  manuscript. 
"He  could  have  written  no  more  with  conviction." 

But  one  evening  he  met  on  the  street  Miss  Qewan, 
who  had  been  discharged  from  "The  Silly  Season" 
by  Montmorrissy.  Felix's  sympathetic  inquiries  un- 
locked her  lips;  she  related  her  struggles  frankly. 

She  had  left  the  stage,  to  try  manicuring,  hair- 
dressing,  peddling  sets  of  books,  and  office  work. 
But  the  manager  of  a  barber's  shop  and  a  French 
hairdresser  had  both  found  her  lacking  in  complai- 
sance; then  her  book-selling  had  drawn  her  into 
equivocal  situations,  and  finally  she  had  engaged  to 
work  for  a  promoter  of  financial  schemes  "who  got 
too  gay."  She  thought  of  accepting  employment  in 
a  telephone  exchange — a  great,  bustling  place  where 
the  individual,  no  doubt,  was  lost  to  view. 

"But,  my  dear  girl,  such  wages!" 

"Yes,"  she  admitted,  "sometimes  when  I  look 
round,  I  think  I'm  foolish.  The  world,  as  I  come 


EMMA  239 

in  contact  with  it,  seems  to  think  so,  too!  But  then, 
it's  not  just  myself." 

"I  know,"  said  Felix,  remembering  some  tale  of 
an  eight-year-old  sister. 

As  she  looked  up  at  him,  surprised,  the  bright 
blood  flooded  her  cheeks. 

Formerly  pale  and  slender,  she  was  now  well-nigh 
ethereal,  and  her  face,  under  dark  hair  arranged  in 
unobtrusive  folds,  revealed  a  luminosity  seen  at 
times  in  countenances  of  women  devoted  to  religion, 
or  to  some  other  elevated,  fixed  resolve.  Felix, 
homeward  bound,  asked  himself: 

"Suppose  it  had  been  one  of  that  sort,  instead?" 

A  breeze  wafted  through  Washington  Square  an 
earthy  odor  that  was  like  a  hint  of  spring.  He 
thought  of  his  solitary  evenings,  and  wondered  where 
she  lived. 

At  night,  in  his  hotel  bedroom,  he  scribbled  list- 
lessly and  tore  up  synopses  of  illogical  tales.  His 
literary  failures  of  the  past  year  had  deprived  him  of 
motive  force.  It  was  only  when  disqualified  from 
work  by  stimulants  that  he  felt  able  to  write  master- 
pieces. 

Smoking  incessantly,  he  paced  from  wall  to  wall, 
sneered  at  the  dingy  room,  peered  at  the  clock  with- 
out knowing  why  he  wanted  time  to  pass,  halted 
before  the  mantel-shelf,  where  stood  his  mother's 
photograph.  Sometimes  he  strove,  from  a  sense  of 
obligation,  to  discover  a  filial  tenderness  for  the 
beautiful  young  woman,  in  obsolete  attire,  whom  he 
had  never  known. 


240  PREDESTINED 

Lives,  pleasures,  opportunities,  ever  touching,  pass- 
ing, vanishing  away!  But  there  always  remained  to 
him  the  luxury  of  self-pity.  Now  and  then,  when 
Felix  was  staring  at  his  reflection  in  the  mirror,  Pat, 
curled  up  on  a  chair,  would  quickly  raise  his  head. 

The  white  bull-terrier  had  grown  to  weigh  forty 
pounds.  His  lengthy  skull  tapered  to  a  sharp  nose; 
his  deep-set  eyes,  three-cornered  and  black-rimmed, 
lay  slantwise  under  a  flat  brow;  his  trimmed  ears, 
lined  with  pink,  stood  permanently  erect ;  he  had  the 
flexible  neck,  long,  narrow  body,  slight  quarters,  and 
sinewy  legs  of  the  agile  fighting  brute.  His  brass- 
bound  collar  was  dented  with  many  a  tooth  mark. 

He  had  spent  hours  without  number  listening  be- 
hind locked  doors  for  the  unique  footfall,  or  enduring 
morosely,  in  furnace  rooms  and  basement  kitchens, 
the  guardianship  of  servants.  Felix,  a  remorseful 
jailer,  at  least  discovered  a  place  where  he  could 
dine  with  Pat  underneath  the  table. 

On  the  north  side  of  Eighth  Street,  close  to  Wash- 
ington Square,  an  old,  white  dwelling-house  had  been 
converted  into  an  Italian  restaurant,  called  "Bene- 
detto's," where  a  table  d'hote  dinner  was  served  for 
sixty  cents.  Some  brown-stone  steps,  flanked  by  a 
pair  of  iron  lanterns,  gave  entrance  to  a  narrow 
corridor.  There,  to  the  right,  immediately  appeared 
the  dining-room,  extending  through  the  house — lino- 
leum underfoot,  hat-racks  and  buffets  of  oak  aligned 
against  the  brownish  walls,  and,  everywhere,  little 
tables,  each  covered  with  a  scanty  cloth,  set  dose 
together. 


EMMA  241 

Felix,  at  the  most  inconspicuous  table,  consumed 
a  soup  redeemed  from  tastelessness  by  grated  par- 
mesan,  a  sliver  of  fish  and  four  slices  of  cucumber, 
spaghetti,  a  chicken  leg,  two  cubic  inches  of  ice- 
cream, a  fragment  of  roquefort  cheese,  and  coffee  in 
a  small,  evidently  indestructible  cup.  Then,  through 
tobacco  smoke,  he  watched  the  patrons  round  him, 
their  feet  twisted  behind  chair-legs,  their  elbows  on 
the  table,  all  arguing  with  gesticulations.  Some- 
times, there  floated  to  him  such  phrases  as:  "bad 
color  scheme!"  "sophomoric  treatment!"  "miser- 
able drawing!"  "no  atmosphere!"  Benedetto's  was 
a  Bohemian  resort. 

One  night,  Felix  made  the  acquaintance  there  of  a 
little  man  with  bright,  shallow  eyes  and  eager  lips, 
wearing  a  low  collar  and  a  large  black  bow,  who 
introduced  himself. 

"My  name  is  Lute.  We  live  in  the  same  hotel, 
and,  I  understand,  pursue  the  same  profession.  So, 
naturally,  neither  of  us  is  to  be  fettered  by  absurd 
conventions.  May  I  sit  down  ?  Mercy,  what's  this 
— a  dog!  Will  he  bite?  Good  fellow!  Guiseppe! 
The  regular  table  d'hote.  Mr.  Piers,  have  you  read 
'A  Sunrise,'  Oliver  CorquilFs  latest?" 

"Not  yet.  I  must,  though,  or  he'll  be  asking  me 
if  I  liked  it." 

Mr.  Lute's  eyes  opened  wide. 

"A  friend  of  Oliver  Corquill's?  How  interesting!" 
And,  hitching  his  chair  forward,  he  beamed  on  the 
young  man.  Felix  wondered  how  he  could  manage 
to  display  also  his  friendship  with  Paul  Pavin. 


242  PREDESTINED 

"And  you,  Mr.  Piers,  may  I  ask  what  you  are 
publishing  just  now?" 

"Nothing,  at  present." 

The  intruder's  face  brightened  all  the  more. 

"Same  with  me.  Put  out  nothing  that's  not  per- 
fect, eh?  I  go  very  carefully.  Would  you  believe 
that  in  the  last  three  months  I've  released  only  one 
thing,  a  quatrain,  appearing  in  the  current  number 
of  The  Mauve  Monthly,  at  the  bottom  of  the  ninety- 
ninth  page?" 

"You  are  a  poet,  then?"  asked  Felix,  raising  his 
second  glass  of  Scotch  and  soda. 

"Specifically,  but  my  muse  is  catholic.  I've  writ- 
ten a  novel,  that  I  shall  revise  to  my  liking  some  day. 
I've  done  a  play — it  was  going  to  be  produced  last 
year — in  collaboration.  You  must  know  of  Miss 
Nedra  Jennings  Nuncheon?" 

"I  haven't  the  pleasure." 

"You  surprise  me!  A  remarkable  girl!  I  must 
introduce  you." 

Next  night,  Felix  was  presented  to  Miss  Nuncheon. 

She  was  tall  and  thin,  with  a  mop  of  orange-colored 
hair  the  ends  of  which  trailed  down.  In  a  blue  dress 
of  many  folds,  the  neck  cut  low,  the  sleeves  covering 
her  knuckles,  she  seemed  to  Felix  trying  to  imper- 
sonate some  lank  damosel  in  a  Preraphaelite  paint- 
ing. She  spoke  impulsively,  in  the  uncertain,  reedy 
voice  of  a  person  hysterically  inclined,  and  frequently, 
with  the  vehemence  of  her  nods,  shook  loose  a  yellow 
celluloid  hairpin. 

It  appeared  that  she  wrote  short  stories  about  "  the 


EMMA  243 

smart  set,"  a  society  existing  far  off  amid  the  glamour 
of  opera-boxes,  conservatories  full  of  orchids,  yachts 
like  ocean  steamships,  mansions  with  marble  stair- 
ways, Paris  dresses  by  the  gross,  and  hatfuls  of  dia- 
monds, where  the  women  were  always  discovered  in 
boudoirs  with  a  French  maid  named  Fanchette  in 
attendance,  receiving  bunches  of  long-stemmed  roses 
from  potential  corespondents,  while  the  men,  all 
very  tall  and  dark,  possessed  of  interesting  pasts, 
were  introduced  before  fireplaces  in  sumptuous 
bachelor  apartments,  the  veins  knotted  on  their 
temples,  and  their  strong  yet  aristocratic  fingers 
clutching  a  photograph  or  a  scented  note.  Miss 
Nuncheon  enjoyed  the  admiration  of  a  numerous 
class  of  readers. 

Nevertheless,  she  lived  in  a  boarding-house  near 
Washington  Square,  where  she  shared  apartments 
with  a  stout,  faded,  pretty  woman  named  Mrs.  Bab- 
bage,  who  usually  accompanied  her  to  Benedetto's. 
Mrs.  Babbage  was  interested  in  occult  philosophies, 
and  wrote  articles  for  an  esoteric  magazine.  She 
was  so  calm  as  to  seem  almost  somnolent ;  she  only 
put  on  a  beatific  smile  when  an  Italian  waiter  spilled 
salad-dressing  down  her  back,  and  when  she  lost  the 
blue  pebble  from  her  cabalistic  finger-ring.  Accord- 
ing to  Mr.  Lute,  if  it  were  not  for  Mrs.  Babbage's 
sedative  influence,  there  was  no  telling  what  agonies 
Miss  Nuncheon  might  endure  on  account  of  her 
intense  artistic  temperament. 

Felix  soon  wearied  of  the  "shop  talk"  that  he 
heard  at  Benedetto's.  There  great  names  were 


244  PREDESTINED 

ignored,  or  else  uneasily  disparaged,  while  New  York 
authors  so  obscure  as  to  be  unknown  to  Felix  were 
vehemently  extolled.  Mr.  Lute,  the  symbolic  qua- 
train writer,  had  not  heard  of  the  Parnassians ;  Miss 
Nuncheon,  always  talking  of  the  "psychological 
novel,"  did  not  know  who  Stendhal  was;  Mrs.  Bab- 
bage,  who  could  dash  off  columns  about  "the  mystic 
ideals  of  the  East,"  showed  a  blank  face  at  references 
to  Neoplatonism.  Finding  his  own  company  less 
exasperating,  Felix  took  to  dining  late,  and,  in  the 
deserted  restaurant,  while  Pat  crunched  bones  be- 
neath the  table,  progressed  at  leisure,  without  inter- 
ruption, from  cheap  red  wine  to  high-balls,  to  liqueur 
brandy,  to  inspiring  dreams.  The  same  swarthy 
waiter  always  helped  him  into  his  overcoat,  and, 
from  the  corridor,  called  after  him: 

"Mind  da  step,  signore!" 

Once,  when  he  had  just  ordered  dinner,  he  saw, 
at  the  other  end  of  the  room,  a  pair  of  eyes,  large 
and  luminous  under  arched  black  brows,  staring  at 
him.  Surely  that  was  the  woman  who,  in  search  of 
her  husband,  had  interrupted  his  studio  party  on 
Christmas  eve,  a  year  and  more  ago !  She  bowed  to 
him  discreetly. 

He  rose,  and  approached  her.  She  bolted  a 
mouthful  of  food,  pressed  a  napkin  to  her  lips,  and 
got  up  from  her  chair.  This  movement  surprised 
him.  He  noticed  her  unfashionable  hat,  and  her 
neat,  black  dress,  which  looked  home-made. 

"How  do  you  do?" 

"Very  well,  thanks.     And  you?" 


EMMA  245 

"I,  too." 

And  they  stood  gazing  at  each  other  without  smil- 
ing. 

A  small  woman,  evidently  past  thirty,  she  was  in 
danger  of  becoming  stout.  Her  face  was  fuller  than 
when  Felix  had  last  seen  her,  and  beneath  her  soft 
chin  had  appeared  an  infinitesimal  crease.  Her 
skin  was  a  clear  white,  her  hair,  blue-black  and  sim- 
ply dressed;  her  blue  eyes,  extraordinarily  lambent— 
which,  from  a  distance,  Felix  had  thought  black — 
formed  her  one  beauty.  Across  her  out  jutting  nose 
ran  a  slight  scar.  She  had  a  little,  pale,  thin-lipped 
mouth  disclosing;  when  she  spoke,  small,  glistening 
teeth.  In  a  soft  voice,  she  said,  hesitatingly: 

"How  strange  to  meet  you  here!" 

"Oh,  I  find  it  amusing,  sometimes,  this  sort  of 
thing,  as  I  suppose  you  do.  Besides,  I  live  near  by." 

"Why,  I  thought- 

"No,  up  there  they  began  to  tear  down  the  build- 
ings round  me;  it  got  rather  disagreeable,  and  I  left. 
But  you?" 

"I  live  round  the  corner." 

"Is  it  possible!    Then  you  come  here  often?" 

"For  a  change.  I  board.  I'm  still  alone.  This 
time,  he  never  came  back." 

After  a  pause,  she  added,  timidly : 

"Won't  you  sit  down,  Mr. " 

Felix  pronounced  his  name.     She  was  Mrs.  Meers. 

They  dined  together. 

She  had  short,  plump  hands,  well  kept,  which  she 
used  at  table  very  warily,  as  if  apprehensive  of  her 


246  PREDESTINED 

manners.  Indeed,  she  was  obviously  ill  at  ease, 
scarcely  touched  her  dinner,  could  not  be  persuaded 
to  take  champagne,  answered  in  monosyllables,  and, 
throughout  the  meal,  seemed  in  a  sort  of  trance. 
Felix,  divining  her  sensations,  exercised  his  ingenuity 
to  impress  her  further.  His  vanity  was  touched,  at 
the  belief  that  this  little  bourgeoise  stood  in  awe  of 
him.  It  was  not  often,  nowadays,  that  he  enjoyed 
the  pleasures  of  superiority. 

When  he  had  paid  the  bill,  he  rallied  her,  gayly: 

"Come,  now:  what  were  you  thinking  of  while 
you  sat  there  all  through  dinner  like  a  little  mouse?" 

With  head  slightly  lowered,  with  lips  together, 
she  looked  at  him  as  if  frightened,  and,  though  she 
made  no  movement,  seemed  to  stir  throughout. 

"I  was  thinking  how  strange  it  was  to  be  dining 
here  with  any  one."  Then,  by  way  of  explanation: 

"I'm  so  much  alone,  you  see." 

It  had  been  drizzling:  the  pavements,  beaded  with 
rain,  showed,  under  mistily  irradiating  street  lamps, 
humid  footprints.  From  the  juncture  of  Mac- 
dougal  Street  and  Waverley  Place,  the  trees  of  Wash- 
ington Square  spread  out  a  mass  of  gray-black 
shadows  underlaid  with  the  horizontal,  pearly  lustre 
of  wet  asphalt  paths.  Here  and  there,  a  yellow  shaft 
of  light,  enlarged  in  the  damp  air,  streamed  past  the 
tree-trunks,  and,  beyond  upper  branches,  illuminated 
window-panes  shone  peacefully,  their  mellow  squares 
etched  over,  as  it  were,  by  delicate  traceries  of  twigs. 
Clouds  were  disintegrating  straight  overhead.  Into 
a  radiant  space  came  floating  a  frail,  shining  crescent. 


EMMA  247 

"Oh,  the  new  moon!"  cried  Felix's  companion, 
with  an  accent  of  emotion.  "I  must  make  a  wish!" 
She  stood  still,  her  lustrous  eyes  upturned,  her  small 
face  solemn  from  superstition.  For  the  moment,  she 
resembled  a  young  girl. 

On  Waverley  Place,  near  Sixth  Avenue,  she  halted 
before  a  house  with  old  window-shutters  and  a 
brown-stone  portico  crumbling  at  the  pediment. 
Beside  the  door,  a  sign  announced  "furnished  rooms 
and  table  board." 

"I  live  here,"  she  confessed. 

Felix,  homeward  bound  through  Washington 
Square,  felt  in  himself  something  of  the  mysterious 
release  of  nature  that  was  taking  place  about  him. 
"This  cool  air,  moist  and  sweet,  is  breathing  news 
of  spring!"  He  gazed  up  at  the  stars,  lips  parted, 
in  unaccountable  expectancy. 

Within  the  week,  curious  to  know  her  story — • 
"which  might  give  him  some  ideas" — he  called  on 
her. 

In  the  boarding-house  on  Waverley  Place  there  was 
no  parlor:  she  had  to  receive  him  in  her  room,  up 
two  flights  of  stairs,  overlooking  the  back  yards.  A 
folding  bed,  adorned  with  a  blotched  mirror,  con- 
fronted a  white  mantel-piece.  Some  old  brocade 
chairs,  the  relics  of  more  nearly  elegant  environments, 
exhibited  their  threadbare  arms  and  split  edges. 
Between  the  windows  stood  a  yellow  bureau,  bearing 
pin-cushions,  brushes,  combs,  and  scissors,  laid  out 
precisely.  The  room,  despite  its  shabbiness,  was 
neat ;  a  work-basket  on  a  stand  provided  a  domestic 


248  PREDESTINED 

touch;  and,  when  Felix  entered,  she  was  preparing 
to  hang  on  the  walls  a  dozen  framed  photographs 
that  she  had  washed.  He  suggested  helping  her;  she, 
at  such  condescension,  excitedly  refused  assistance; 
in  his  most  urbane  manner,  he  insisted.  Over  this 
mutual  labor,  they  progressed  to  laughter.  He  dis- 
covered that  she  could  appreciate  his  attempts  at 
humor.  A  smile  changed  her  face  surprisingly. 

All  the  photographs  were  of  her.  She  was  por- 
trayed in  a  lace  dress,  in  a  light  opera  cloak  and 
train,  in  a  large  hat  with  plumes,  always,  in  these 
costumes  which  looked  at  once  expensive  and  pro- 
vincial, standing  stiffly,  with  immobile  face,  like  a 
wax  figure  in  a  show-window.  Felix  wondered  if 
vanity  had  urged  her  to  this  exhibition.  He  ventured : 

"What  pretty  dresses!  And  how  well  you  look  in 
them!" 

"I  used  to  have  things,"  she  responded,  heaving  a 
deep  sigh. 

Perhaps,  then,  these  were  souvenirs  by  means  of 
which  she  kept  active  a  melancholy  retrospection  ? 

Lonely,  bursting  with  suppressed  complaints,  evi- 
dently a  wToman  to  make  a  confidant  of  the  first  sym- 
pathetic-looking person,  she  needed  no  temptation  to 
discuss  her  history.  "I  feel  everything  so  deeply! 
And  few  women  have  had  such  troubles  as  I,"  she 
declared,  with  an  air  of  mournful  satisfaction. 

Born  and  brought  up  in  a  Connecticut  town,  from 
which  she  had  migrated  as  a  bride,  she  had  married, 
for  love,  the  superintendent  of  a  beef-packing  house 
in  Long  Island  City.  According  to  her,  this  husband 


EMMA  249 

was  a  fellow  inexpressibly  handsome  and  robust,  rosy 
from  inhabiting  cold-storage  vaults,  resplendent  in 
his  white  apron  amid  his  rows  of  carcasses,  and,  no 
doubt,  deriving  from  the  exhalations  of  so  much  raw 
flesh  a  brutal  lustihood.  He  had  "a  good  salary"; 
they  fitted  out  a  cottage  in  Long  Island  City  that  she 
"would  not  have  exchanged  for  the  best  house  on 
Fifth  Avenue."  There  she  was  happy. 

But  "Lew"  had  taken  to  drink,  had  neglected  her, 
had  proved  unfaithful.  While  referring  to  her  hus- 
band's many  gallantries,  she  could  not  help  show- 
ing something  like  admiration.  She  had  possessed, 
or  shared,  at  least,  a  Don  Juan! 

Her  parents  were  dead;  her  woman  friends  had 
failed  her;  men  had  not  been  willing  to  remain  dis- 
interested. With  nowhere  to  turn,  she  had  condoned 
her  husband's  various  offences.  She  explained, 
"Then,  too,  Mr.  Piers,  you  don't  know  what  the 
name  'wife'  means  to  a  woman." 

Lew  lost  his  position  and  could  retain  no  other, 
dissipated  his  savings  and  whatever  money  of  his 
wife's  he  could  secure,  sold  the  cottage,  changed 
lodgings  every  month,  haunted  race-tracks,  dis- 
appeared for  weeks  on  drinking  bouts,  finally  van- 
ished. She  was  now  spending  the  last  of  her  inheri- 
tance :  when  that  was  gone,  what  should  she  do  ? 

"He  may  come  to  his  senses  yet,"  was  Felix's 
suggestion. 

She  became  greatly  agitated. 

"That's  finished!  It  took  me  eight  years  to  wean 
myself  away  from  him.  But  now  I  hate  his  very 


250  PREDESTINED 

name!  And  I  shall  never  love  again — oh,  never, 
never  again." 

Felix  repressed  a  smile.  She  was  diverting,  this 
little,  naive,  earnest  woman  of  a  class  new  to  him. 
He  thought,  "I  could  write  a  novel  round  her." 
Indeed,  he  fell  to  contemplating  such  a  book — a 
monotone  of  misfortunes,  beginning  obscurely,  mov- 
ing through  commonplace  adventures  that  his  art 
would  make  prodigious,  then  slowly  drawing  to  an 
undistinguished,  yet  exquisitely  pathetic,  close.  So 
he  took  to  calling  on  her  regularly. 

He  had  his  chair,  the  deepest  and  most  comfortable. 
She  bought  a  metal  ash-tray,  which  she  placed  near 
him,  diffidently;  the  receptacle  first  used  by  him — a 
pasteboard  box-lid — was  not  good  enough,  it  seemed. 

She  was  long  in  abandoning  her  timidity  before  this 
young  man  with  a  distinguished  air  and  a  nice  com- 
mand of  language,  this  "gentleman,"  who  gave  ex- 
travagant supper-parties  in  a  studio,  confessed  him- 
self hand  in  glove  with  celebrities,  and  every  evening 
might  undoubtedly  have  dazzled  the  town  in  the 
most  brilliant  company.  If  only  she  could  have 
received  him  "properly"!  She  lamented  the  loss  of 
her  cottage.  What  good  little  dinners  she  had  once 
contrived  for  persons  unworthy  of  them,  the  straw- 
berry shortcake  a  product  of  her  own  hands,  the  table 
laden,  thanks  to  Lew,  with  the  choicest  meats  and 
game !  Her  very  ingenuousness  roused  his  pity. 

She  had  spent  part  of  her  girlhood  in  a  convent. 
While  darning  stockings,  she  related  anecdotes: 

"I  had  a  little  room  with  a  white  bed,  and  a  shiny, 


EMMA  251 

shiny  floor,  and  one  chair.  But  no  mirror!  I  never 
saw  myself!  When  I  got  home,  I  sat  all  day  before  a 
mirror,  rocking  and  rocking. 

"In  recreation  hour,  we  made  clothes  for  tiny  little 
orphans.  Sometimes  I  would  be  sewing  in  the  grape 
arbor,  and  a  great  bunch  of  grapes  would  fall  right 
into  my  lap.  How  my  mouth  watered!  But  the 
Sister  always  said,  'Be  firm,  Emma!' 

"I  used  to  pray  at  night,  'If  only  I  could  die  this 
minute :  I'm  so  good,  I  would  go  straight  to  heaven ! ' ' 

These  speeches,  accompanied  by  shy,  bird-like 
poses  of  the  head,  all  ending  in  a  whisper  like  a  little 
girl's,  bestowed  on  her  a  dainty  charm,  and  made 
her  seem  younger  than  she  was.  She  confessed  to 
twenty-nine  years. 

One  evening,  when  he  was  bidding  her  good-by, 
their  hands  grew  cold  at  contact,  their  glances  clung 
together.  She,  with  a  look  of  consternation,  slowly 
leaned  her  weight  against  the  door- jamb. 

At  once,  he  recalled  the  past,  and  all  its  miseries. 
He  went  downstairs  quickly.  He  swore  never  to 
enter  there  again. 

It  was  spring  at  last;  the  windows  of  his  room 
were  open ;  the  breeze  blew  in.  And  from  the  dark- 
ness something  invisible,  impalpable,  yet  almost  per- 
sonal, something  soft,  languorous,  and  immense, 
related  to  the  stars,  to  flowers,  to  evening  winds, 
seemed  stealing  toward  him. 

He  was  frightened.     Recoiling,  he  whispered: 

"No  more!    This  time,  I  want  to  escape!" 


CHAPTER  XII 

FELIX  avoided  Benedetto's  restaurant,  stopped 
wandering  in  Washington  Square  at  night,  made  de- 
tours round  Waver! ey  Place,  even  thought  of  chang- 
ing his  abode.  But  in  a  week  he  asked  himself  why 
his  apprehension  had  been  so  intense.  He  had,  it 
seemed,  been  afraid  of  an  obscure  little  woman  no 
longer  youthful,  neither  pretty  nor  talented,  who 
should  have  excited  in  him  only  pity  and  amusement ! 
Had  he  not  learned  his  lesson,  through  much  suffer- 
ing, at  the  hands  of  those  with  whom,  in  point  of 
charms,  she  was  not  to  be  compared? 

Sometimes,  however,  he  imagined  her  sitting  in  her 
room,  the  metal  ash-tray  empty  on  her  bureau,  with 
her  dozen  photographs,  suggestive  of  "better  days," 
for  company.  This  picture  seemed  indirectly  to 
reproach  him. 

He  became  angry.  Deserted  and  lonely?  So 
were  a  hundred  thousand  other  women  in  the  city; 
he  hoped  he  was  not  under  obligations  to  them  all! 
"My  worst  trouble  is  that  I  am  naturally  a  senti- 
mental ass!" 

Well,  he  would  make  an  end  of  that  with  his  other 
weaknesses.  Recalling  to  mind  great  historic  fig- 
ures, he  told  himself  that  those  who  hardened  their 

hearts  and  rode  rough-shod  over  humanity  attained 

252 


EMMA  253 

the  highest  eminences.  With  the  intention  of  emula- 
ting such  characters,  he  assumed  an  air  of  energy  and 
sternness,  was  unnaturally  curt  in  all  his  intercourse, 
and,  in  the  street,  regarded  passers-by — to  their  evi- 
dent surprise — with  a  set,  inimical  face.  In  this 
mood,  as  in  all  others,  he  was  swept  quickly  to  excess. 

These  enforcements  of  vigor  proved  only  so  many 
additional  incentives  to  inebriety.  For  just  as  he 
could  no  longer  feel  depression  without  the  desire  to 
relieve  it  by  familiar  means,  so  he  could  not  experi- 
ence exhilaration  without  the  impulse  to  appease  in 
like  manner  a  nervous  appetency  that  accompanied 
it.  His  recent  ideas  of  abstinence  faded  in  a  moral 
obscuration  continually  renewed.  Nearly  every  night 
he  reached  his  bed  half  stupefied  by  his  potations. 
At  the  newspaper  office,  he  welcomed  eagerly  an 
''outdoor  job,"  as  promising  the  opportunity  to 
snatch  some  highballs  on  the  way. 

Now  and  then,  when  Felix,  at  a  battered  desk,  was 
scribbling  of  defaulters,  homicides,  and  politicians, 
the  editor,  on  the  threshold  of  his  compartment,  a 
newspaper  clipping  in  his  hand,  gazed  at  the  young 
man  as  if  absent-mindedly.  If  he  had  in  prospect  a 
delicate  commission,  which  threatened  libel  suits,  he 
beckoned  Johnny  Livy. 

This  reporter  managed  to  get  himself  affianced  to  a 
modest  girl  who  lived  with  her  parents  in  a  suburb. 
Immediately,  he  left  off  drinking,  discarded  his  black 
felt  hat  and  corncob  pipe,  strove  to  be  at  once  better 
dressed  and  more  economical,  worked  desperately  to 
attract  the  favorable  notice  of  his  superiors,  had  no 


254  PREDESTINED 

small  talk  that  was  not  about  "the  cost  of  living." 
Felix,  his  frequent  confidant,  disguised  commiserat- 
ing smiles,  like  one  who  sees  others  striving  for  such 
fruits  as  have  withered  at  his  touch. 

But  one  brilliant  afternoon  in  May,  when  all  the 
trees  of  Washington  Square  were  stippled  with  a 
tender  green,  there  came  to  him  a  sadness  not  to  be 
dispelled  by  sunshine;  and  he  paused,  in  the  door- 
way of  his  hotel,  to  look  again  at  a  young  couple 
promenading,  slowly  and  silently,  beside  the  red  and 
yellow  tulip  beds,  beneath  the  budding  leaves,  to  the 
twittering  of  mating  birds. 

When  he  went  upstairs,  he  found  on  the  door-sill 
of  his  room  an  envelope  addressed  in  an  unknown, 
childish  hand.  It  was  from  Emma  Meers. 

She  had  been  wondering  how  she  could  have 
offended  him.  The  thought  of  losing,  by  some  inad- 
vertence, a  kind  friend — if  she  might  call  him  so — 
with  friends  so  scarce,  had  nearly  "brought  her  down 
ill."  "Your  calls  were  something  to  look  foreward 
to;  they  made  me  feel  like  I  wasent  all  together 
alone.  I  know  it  was  a  great  kindness  of  you  to 
bother  with  me,  being  so  busy,  and  haveing  so  inter- 
esting people  to  take  up  your  leisure,  but  if  you  could 
find  it  conveniant  only  to  drop  in  sometimes  when 
you  are  not  engaged,  and  cheer  me  up  like  you  used, 
is  the  wish  of  yours  very  gratefully"  .  .  . 

Poor  little  woman,  this  letter,  with  all  its  errors  so 
painstakingly  engrossed,  had  been  a  troublesome  task 
for  her!  Her  face,  timid  and  beseeching,  appeared 
before  him  no  less  clearly  than  on  those  evenings 


EMMA  255 

when  they  had  forgotten  in  company  their  loneliness. 
He  wondered  how  he  could  have  been  apprehensive 
of  a  personality  so  submissive,  so  helpless,  so  easy — 
if  the  utmost  befell — to  leave  behind. 

For  was  there  not  to  be  read,  between  the  lines  of 
that  laborious  script,  a  meaning  more  wistful  than 
she  dared  express;  did  he  not  perceive,  with  an 
intuition  sharpened  to  discern  every  sentimental  ap- 
proach, that  something  was  seeking  him  which  he 
had  never  yet  been  able  to  withstand?  He  gazed, 
in  fact,  toward  a  new  horizon,  where  hovered  the 
promise  of  a  passion  the  more  piquant  for  its  humble 
and  almost  domestic  setting.  At  the  revival  of  his 
ineradicable  curiosity,  all  his  determinations  were 
forgotten. 

He  returned  to  Waverley  Place. 

She  rose  from  a  chair ;  her  hand  flew  to  her  breast ; 
she  stood  motionless,  staring  at  him. 

"Oh,  how  you  frightened  me!" 

"I  wasn't  expected?" 

"No.  Yes.  That  is,  I  hardly  hoped.  So  you  got 
my  poor  letter?" 

"A  charming  letter." 

"Ah,  you  say  that!" 

She  was  within  his  reach,  her  small,  upturned  face 
assuredly  betraying  the  secret  he  had  expected  to 
discover.  But  suddenly,  remembering  their  short 
acquaintance,  he  became  incredulous.  What  if  he 
were  on  the  verge  of  a  humiliating  vmistake?  He 
hesitated,  lost  his  chance,  and  sat  down  in  "his 
chair."  She  placed  the  metal  ash-tray  at  his  elbow. 


256  PREDESTINED 

"And  what  have  you  been  doing,  all  these  three 
weeks?" 

"Working  every  minute.     And  you?" 

"Trying  to  forget  my  troubles." 

So  they  began  again.  After  all  his  anticipations, 
such  an  anticlimax! 

Yet  whose  fault  was  it,  if  not  his?  That  evening, 
while  returning  home,  he  denounced  his  vacillation; 
he  vowed  that  their  next  meeting  should  be  different. 
As  always,  when  once  tempted  to  tamper  with  his 
resolutions,  he  was  to  be  satisfied  with  nothing  less 
than  the  annihilation  of  them. 

Such  dexterity  in  love-making  as  he  now  possessed 
was  not  needed  in  the  slightest.  His  first  change  of 
voice  from  commonplace  to  tender  agitated  her;  at 
his  near  approach  she  fixed  him  with  a  dewy  gaze 
through  which  her  soul  seemed  to  flow  toward  him; 
at  his  touch,  she  closed  her  eyes,  swayed  forward, 
inarticulate,  and  fell  into  his  arms. 

He  was  less  elated  than  vexed ;  by  this  point-blank 
surrender  he  had  been  cheated  of  innumerable  tenu- 
ous pleasures  such  as,  in  his  opinion,  should  have 
composed  their  amorous  progress.  Clumsy  haste! 
His  aesthetic  sense  was  outraged,  and,  in  his  heart  of 
hearts,  he  blamed  her  for  his  disappointment. 

Nevertheless,  he  could  not  help  being  flattered  by 
the  confession  she  gasped  out  while  clinging  to  him 
with  averted  face.  She  had  intended  never  to  love 
any  one  again;  she  had  not  believed  it  possible  for 
her  to  do  so;  yet  from  that  first  night  in  Benedetto's 
she  had  suspected  that  it  was  "all  up  with  her." 


EMMA  257 

"  But  I  fought  against  it !  I  never  meant  to  love  you, 
either!  Oh,  why,  why,  did  you  make  me?  Why  did 
you  come  back?  Something  terrible  will  happen  to 
us — a  judgment  from  Heaven!  Don't  try  to  com- 
fort me ;  I  know  it,  I  know  it !  Oh,  if  the  Sisters  in 
the  convent  heard;  if  my  mother  could  look  down!" 
She  sobbed  violently,  struggled  to  escape  his  arms, 
collapsed  in  a  sort  of  swoon,  her  head  thrown  back, 
her  large  eyes  glassy  and  motionless  in  their  sockets. 
Presently,  from  her  pallor  and  immobility,  one  might 
have  believed  her  dead,  save  that  tears  continually 
welled  up  in  the  outer  corners  of  her  eyes,  and,  un- 
expectedly, ran  down  her  cheeks.  "This  woman 
frightens  me,"  thought  Felix.  Her  outburst  took  on 
for  him  an  ominous  aspect:  without  knowing  what 
he  feared,  he  wished  himself  far  away.  When  he 
strove  to  withdraw  his  hand  from  hers,  she  held  him 
fast  with  unexpected  alacrity.  He  remained  still,  an 
uncomfortable  prisoner. 

Thus,  as  if  with  subtle  portents,  their  intimacy  was 
inaugurated. 

It  soon  became  necessary  for  him  to  visit  her  every 
evening,  if  he  was  to  escape  lugubrious  sighs,  pathetic 
references  to  "lonely  hours,"  such  parade  of  melan- 
choly looks  as  would  have  been  an  appropriate  re- 
proach for  a  desertion  covering  a  period  of  years. 

She  had  not  been  long  in  rallying  from  her  first 
remorse,  in  denying  her  scruples,  in  discovering  ex- 
cuses for  her  weakness.  "Lew  had  abandoned  her, 
so  she  was  no  longer  under  obligations  to  him;  as 
that  life  was  finished,  she  had  the  right  to  begin 


258  PREDESTINED 

another.  Who  knew  but  that  Felix's  coming  had 
been  intended  as  a  recompense  for  so  much  unhap- 
piness?" 

Her  idea,  unconsciously  disclosed,  that  relations  of 
a  permanent  nature  were  commencing,  caused  Felix 
to  open  wide  his  eyes.  The  devil!  Here  was  a 
woman  who  made  up  for  lack  of  other  qualities  with 
a  fine  abundance  of  impetuosity!  "I  see  that  I  must 
think  well  of  Lew,  for  I  suspect  him  to  be  the  chap 
who  is  going  to  save  me  some  day  from  a  warm  situ- 
ation!" Indeed,  it  occurred  to  Felix  that  the  wisest 
plan  would  be  to  disappear  at  once.  But  there  was 
a  charm  in  Emma  Meers's  society  that  he  could  not 
deny. 

She  showed  him  nothing  but  gratitude,  naive  ad- 
miration, and  humility.  Such  behavior  gave  him  an 
excellent  opinion  of  himself,  and  caused  him  to 
assume  toward  her  a  manner  affectionately  con- 
descending. 

On  summer  nights,  in  her  darkened  room — when 
the  warm  breeze,  swelling  the  window-curtains  of 
white  scrim,  brought  across  the  back  yards  sounds  of 
piano-playing,  of  voices  warbling  scales,  of  cats  in 
combat — Felix,  "worn  out  by  a  hard  day's  work," 
reclined  in  his  chair,  while  Emma  knelt  beside  him 
in  a  pose  that  she  protested  was  quite  comfortable. 
A  faint  light,  from  other  back  windows,  penetrated 
the  curtains;  her  face,  pale  and  indistinct,  showed  a 
beauty  so  ambiguous  as  to  make  him  wonder  whether 
it  was  she  indeed,  or  some  amorous  incarnation  from 
his  dreams.  Then  her  shadowy  eyes,  full  of  solem- 


EMMA  259 

nity,  approached;  he  felt  her  breath  on  his  lips;  he 
recognized  her. 

In  intimacy,  he  soon  lost  his  earliest  impression  of 
her  looks — just  as,  by  seeing  any  object  every  day,  we 
come  to  forget  our  first  appraisal  of  it.  She  seemed 
younger  to  him  than  formerly.  Perhaps  that  was 
owing  to  her  manner  of  a  little  girl,  habitual  in 
moments  of  tenderness? 

"Make  love  to  her,"  she  would  whisper,  childishly. 

Caresses  sometimes  recalled  to  her  other  scenes: 
in  the  hushed  voice  that  sentimentalists  reserve  for 
tales  of  old  romances  the  charm  of  which  survives  all 
disillusion,  she  spoke  of  her  honeymoon,  of  her  early 
married  life,  of  her  cottage,  where  so  much  sweetness 
was  once  imprisoned.  That  had  been  a  home! 
Suffering  from  the  suppression  of  her  strong  domestic 
instinct,  she  longed  for  a  field,  however  narrow,  where 
she  might  play  the  housewife. 

Then,  unable  to  deny  herself  the  pleasures  of  rr?el- 
ancholy,  she  dwelt  on  her  misfortunes.  An  almost 
chronic  emof.ionalism  caused  her  to  dilate  and  con- 
fuse all  stories  of  past  happenings  and  sensations,  so 
that  overstatements  of  Lew's  cruelty  got  mixed  up 
with  extravagant  reports  concerning  his  good  looks 
and  dissolute  accomplishments.  Felix  made  a  gest- 
ure of  annoyance. 

"You're  fond  of  him  yet,  I  think!" 

"Never!    Never!    Would  I  be  in  love  with  you?" 

After  a  silence,  she  mused: 

"But  I'll  tell  you  this,  that  since  him  I've  never 
met  any  one  but  you  that  I  could  love." 


200  PREDESTINED 

Had  she,  then,  been  looking  round  for  some  one  ? 
If  Felix  had  not  come  along,  would  she  not,  finding 
isolation  of  the  heart  intolerable,  have  succumbed  to 
another?  The  young  man  was  not  much  flattered 
by  this  idea.  From  that  night,  he  exerted  himself  to 
convince  her  that  his  merits  were  supereminent ;  and, 
on  account  of  the  earnestness  with  which  he  entered 
upon  this  task,  he  began  to  lose  his  pose  of  superiority. 

Reflecting  that  he  could  hardly  be  damaged,  now, 
by  any  indiscretion,  he  frequently  appeared  with  her 
in  public.  The  most  frugal  excursions  seemed  to 
delight  her. 

They  rode  by  trolley-car  to  Coney  Island,  where, 
in  pleasure-grounds  full  of  grotesque  buildings  made 
of  staff  and  tinsel,  with  rococo  bridges  arching  across 
lagoons  and  minarets  rising  on  all  sides,  they  sat  at 
table  on  a  balcony  above  the  crowds,  Felix  drink- 
ing highballs,  and  Emma,  in  a  broad-brimmed  sailor 
hat  and  a  white  linen  dress  too  tight  for  her,  laugh- 
ing at  the  merrymakers  below.  She  was  quick  to  ap- 
preciate humorous  incidents,  and  occasionally  aston- 
ished Felix  with  a  flash  of  wit. 

"Yes,"  she  cooed,  in  a  tone  of  infantile  compla- 
cency, "sometimes  she  can  say  funny  things.  But 
not  often  when  you're  round." 

"Why  not?" 

Emma  shook  her  head,  mysteriously. 

"'Cause  she's  afraid." 

At  dusk,  when  electric  lamps  outlining  the  fan- 
tastic edifices  all  glowed  forth,  they  set  out  through 
the  crowd  toward  an  open-air  restaurant  near  by, 


EMMA  261 

where  a  band  of  Tyrolese  sang  under  trees  festooned 
with  yellow  lanterns. 

On  the  way,  the  spectacle  of  countless  faces  stream- 
ing past  him  gradually  bewildered  Felix.  His  eye- 
lids drooped;  he  caught  his  toe  in  something.  She 
tightened  her  grasp  on  his  arm. 

"I  beg  your  pardon!  Do  you  know,  I  was  just 
wondering  what  would  happen  if  we  met  your  Lew  ?" 

She  compressed  her  lips;  her  eyes  flashed  fire; 
abruptly,  she  looked  her  age.  In  a  high,  metallic 
voice,  she  replied: 

"I'd  soon  settle  him!  I'd  say,  'Why,  what  have 
you  to  do  with  me  ?  I  was  divorced  from  you  months 
ago  in  South  Dakota,  and  this  is  my  husband  now!'" 

While  he  considered  this  reply  an  amusing  one, 
Felix  could  not  help  wishing  that  another  had 
occurred  to  her. 

At  dinner,  he  became  more  intoxicated.  Lanterns 
among  the  trees,  each  lending  to  an  enveloping  mass 
of  leaves  a  hue  violently  green,  appeared  to  him  like 
fruits  in  an  enchanted  garden;  the  voices  of  the 
Tyrolese  women,  wafted  from  a  distance,  barely  sur- 
viving the  continuous  rattle  of  dishes,  were  like  the 
staccato  cries  of  sirens  rising  above  the  plashing  of 
a  surf;  while  Emma's  face,  at  once  mature  and 
girlish,  expectant  and  demure,  slowly  turned  beau- 
tiful before  him.  He  leaned  forward,  his  temples 
throbbing,  some  wild,  lover's  eloquence  rising  to  his 
lips.  But  a  phrase  in  the  Tyrolese  women's  song 
reminded  him  of  "The  Lost  Venus,"  and,  as  he 
looked  away,  he  saw  a  profile  that  brought  his 


262  PREDESTINED 

heart  into  his  mouth.  Great  heavens,  how  like  Nina 
Ferrol! 

"Felix,  what  is  the  matter?" 

He  turned  his  eyes  toward  Emma. 

"Nothing.  But  we'll  go  home,  if  you  don't  mind. 
My  dog's  back  there,  shut  up  in  a  room,  alone.  The 
poor  brute,  I've  had  him  since  he  was  a  puppy,  and 
this  is  the  way  I  treat  him." 

And,  as  they  rode  cityward,  he  thought: 

"If  only  I  could  begin  my  life  all  over!" 

But  one  night  he  took  Emma  to  a  theatre,  where 
they  watched  just  such  a  review  as  Montmorrissy 
habitually  produce^.  The  lively  music,  the  brilliant 
stage  thronged  with  smiling  girls  audaciously  attired, 
the  atmosphere  of  reckless  gayety  that  floated  out 
across  the  footlights,  affected  Felix  with  a  species  of 
nostalgia.  He  recalled  many  hours  that  had  been 
fraught  with  pain,  but  in  which  he  now  discovered 
the  charm  that  frequently  enriches  the  most  unhappy 
episodes,  at  retrospection.  No,  he  would  not  have 
omitted  that  portion  of  his  life! 

In  the  crowded  lobby  of  the  theatre,  Felix  came 
face  to  face  with  Oliver  Corquill.  The  young  man 
had  an  impulse  to  draw  back :  he  owed  this  celebrity 
two  hundred  dollars. 

But  the  latter,  advancing  with  a  smile,  grasped 
Felix  by  the  hand. 

"What  an  elusive  fellow  you  are!  I  called  at  your 
old  rooms,  to  find  you  vanished." 

"I  meant  to  send  you  word.  Don't  think  I'd  for- 
gotten you." 


EMMA  263 

And,  uncomfortably  conscious  of  Emma's  home- 
made hat,  he  introduced  the  novelist.  She  received, 
along  with  a  courtly  bow,  one  of  those  looks  that 
seem  no  more  than  amiable,  but  which,  while  cover- 
ing in  a  flash  the  entire  person,  plunge,  as  it  were, 
into  the  heart.  Emma  promptly  conceived  an  antip- 
athy against  Corquill,  and  could  not  help  complain- 
ing of  him  to  Felix  before  they  reached  Waverley 
Place.  Excitedly,  she  burst  forth: 

"I  mistrust  him!  Besides,  he  doesn't  like  me. 
Oh,  I  could  see  it,  in  spite  of  his  smiles!  He'll  call 
on  you,  now,  and  talk  to  you  about  me.  Yes,  he'll 
show  you  all  my  faults;  he'll  persuade  you  to  leave 
me!" 

"What  rot!"  ejaculated  Felix,  with  the  first  accent 
of  irritation  that  she  had  heard  from  him. 

Stopping  short  beside  a  lamp-post,  she  stared  at 
him  with  eyes  dilated,  as  much  aghast  as  if  he  had 
struck  her.  And,  to  his  consternation,  her  lament 
rang  through  the  silent  street : 

"You  see!  You're  changed  already!  Oh,  I  knew 
it!  I  felt  it!" 

It  took  him  half  an  hour  to  make  her  "listen  to 
reason." 

However,  as  she  had  predicted,  Oliver  Corquill 
lost  no  time  in  calling  at  Felix's  hotel. 

In  his  gray  flannel  suit  and  dove-colored  cravat 
pierced  with  a  coral  pin,  he  still  suggested  the  busi- 
ness office  far  more  than  the  study.  Apparently 
without  even  glancing  round  the  hotel  bedroom,  he 
made  himself  at  home,  and  spoke  of  Paul  Pavin. 


264  PREDESTINED 

The  Frenchman  had  been  in  Corfu  painting  a  por- 
trait of  the  German  emperor's  daughter;  thence  he 
had  gone  for  a  jaunt  among  Scandinavian  fjords;  he 
might  come  to  New  York  within  the  year,  but  mean- 
while wished  especially  to  be  remembered  to  Felix. 

The  young  man  was  moved  by  the  persistent 
friendliness  of  so  fine  a  personage.  Corquill  con- 
tinued : 

"Yes,  I'm  sure  he  feels  a  sincere  regard  for  you. 
But  then,  beneath  all  his  irreverence,  he  has  a  heart 
of  gold.  Also,  a  past  eventful  enough  to  make  his 
advice  worth  taking." 

Felix  was  blushing.    He  blurted  out: 

"Why  not  say  at  once  that  I'd  better  profit  by  it  ?" 

"Well,  I  know  how  much  more  profitable  than 
good  advice  experience  is.  All  the  same,  if  you'll 
pardon  me,  one  oughtn't  to  need  an  annual  repetition 
of  experience.  To  be  frank,  while  I  was  glad  to  hear 
that  'The  Queen  of  Hearts'  had  gone  on  the  road, 
I  was  as  sorry  as  if  it  hadn't,  when  I  met  you  in  the 
theatre  the  other  night." 

Felix,  his  lips  trembling  from  indignation,  stam- 
mered: 

"A  rather  hasty  deduction!" 

The  novelist,  with  a  gentle  smile,  shook  his  head. 

"You'd  be  surprised  how  many  people  of  all  sorts 
I  know,  how  much  I  hear,  how  frequently  insignifi- 
cant episodes  have  unseen  witnesses,  how  often  a 
man  believes  that  he  lives  in  secret  when  his  whole 
activity  is  talked  about." 

Felix  was  dumbfounded.    At  last: 


EMMA  265 

"If  I  may  be  so  personal,  in  my  turn,  what  busi- 
ness is  this  of  yours?" 

Mr.  Corquill  was  not  at  all  embarrassed. 

"My  dear  boy,  I  have  as  much  solicitude  for  talents 
as  you  have,  probably,  for  human  life.  If  you  saw  a 
foolish  fellow  putting  a  rope  round  his  neck,  what 
would  you  do?" 

The  other  stared  before  him. 

"I  think  I'd  wish  him  good  luck." 

The  novelist  stood  up. 

"Dine  with  me  to-night." 

"I — I  have  an  engagement." 

"We'll  break  it,"  Corquill  announced,  and 
marched  Felix  off  to  the  restaurant  of  a  quiet  hotel 
on  Fifth  Avenue. 

They  seated  themselves  by  an  open  window  in  a 
spacious  room  panelled  with  mahogany  grown  dull 
from  age,  where  the  brass  chandeliers  were  old- 
fashioned,  the  thick  Turkish  carpet  faded,  the  buf- 
fets antiquated,  the  grey-headed  waiters  of  that 
placid  and  paternal  mien  which  results  from  long 
service  in  an  environment  sedately  rich.  Few  per- 
sons were  dining  there:  some  elderly  gentlemen, 
their  hair  neatly  parted  down  the  back,  sat  erect  at 
small  tables;  in  a  corner  was  to  be  seen  a  family 
party — the  father,  the  mother,  and  three  little  girls 
in  white  eating  ices  with  the  lax,  contented  looks  of 
well-bred  children.  Felix  gazed  round  him  with  a 
sensation  of  shame.  Memories  of  his  own  childhood 
came  to  him,  and,  sick  at  heart,  he  inquired  of  his 
companion: 


266  PREDESTINED 

"Why  dJd  you  choose  this  place?" 

"On  a  hot  night,  I  like  quiet  and  elbow-room," 
was  the  innocent  response. 

The  novelist,  who  had  never  before  seemed  capa- 
ble of  boastfulness,  talked  of  his  past  successes,  the 
royalties  earned  from  his  books,  an  estate  that  he 
had  just  bought  in  the  country,  his  dogs,  his  roses, 
and  his  polo-ponies.  Felix  commented,  bitterly: 

"Yes,  you  are  to  be  envied." 

The  celebrity  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"Oh,  when  I  was  your  age,  I  couldn't  write  such 
good  stuff  as  you've  turned  out." 

In  CorquilFs  opinion,  to  attain  success  one  had  to 
expend  his  entire  force  in  pursuit  of  the  desired 
object.  Only  disaster  was  foreshadowed  by  Felix's 
belief  that  one  should  experience  ail  he  intended  to 
portray.  The  artist,  to  describe  destruction,  did  not 
need  to  destroy  himself.  He  was  informed  with  an 
intuitive  comprehension  of  life,  developing,  as  Felix 
would  find  out,  more  fully  year  by  year.  As  the 
paleontologist  reconstructed  from  one  fossil  bone  the 
whole  skeleton  of  a  prehistoric  animal,  so  the  adept 
in  literature,  prepared  by  long  and  intense  scrutiny 
of  human  hearts,  found  in  a  phrase  caught  at  ran- 
dom, in  a  look  surprised  on  a  strange  face,  the  clue 
to  a  character,  to  a  life.  In  fine,  the  great  novel 
resulted  from  perception,  intuition,  and  logic.  And 
Corquill  cited  a  quotation,  to  the  effect  that  Balzac — 
who  had  avoided  nearly  every  material  diversion  in 
order  that  his  mentality  might  be  the  clearer — de- 
picted his  characters  so  marvellously  as  to  make  one 


EMMA  267 

think  he  must  have  been,  at  some  time,  a  janitor,  a 
spinster,  a  swashbuckler,  a  demirep,  a  priest.  Even 
in  his  youth,  that  speech  of  Strindberg's  could  never 
have  been  applied  to  him:  he  had  never  been  the 
artist  "yearning  for  the  pinnacle  of  ambition,  with- 
out being  willing  to  pay  the  price  required  of  those 
who  are  to  reach  it." 

Felix,  to  whom  the  last  theory  always  seemed  the 
most  admirable,  was  greatly  impressed. 

That  night,  the  young  man  assured  himself  that  a 
new  life  should  begin  for  him  at  once.  He  had  never 
so  clearly  perceived  his  folly.  He  marvelled  at  the 
stupidity  which  had  brought  him  to  such  a  pass.  He 
would  escape  all  his  detriments,  Emma  included. 

This  last  project,  however,  required  thought. 

Meanwhile,  for  three  days  he  drank  nothing,  and, 
since  this  mood  demanded  of  him,  as  usual,  the 
strictest  behavior  that  could  be  imagined,  did  not 
smoke  so  much  as  a  cigarette. 

Then,  his  pleased  amazement — that  such  continence 
had  been  latent,  all  the  while,  in  him — gave  place  to 
depression.  He  fell  to  gazing  dismally  at  strangers 
wreathed  in  tobacco  smoke,  and  at  jolly  fellows, 
glimpsed  through  the  doorways  of  cafes,  pouring 
whiskey  down  their  throats  with  gusto.  He  consid- 
ered that  he  suffered  much  more  from  strict  behavior 
than  from  reckless. 

Thereupon,  without  any  sense  of  repetition,  he 
began  an  old  farce. 

He  decided  that  he  had  been  wheedled  into  a  state 
no  less  absurd  than  dolorous.  Why  should  he  tor- 


268  PREDESTINED 

ment  himself  by  renouncing  pleasures  that  the  world 
enjoyed?  Besides,  CorquilPs  homilies  would  have 
been  more  suitably  lavished  on  a  middle-aged  man 
who  had  frittered  away  his  life.  Felix,  for  his  part, 
was  still  young  enough  to  feel  that  he  had  eternity 
at  his  disposal.  His  exalted  determinations  in  re- 
spect of  work  went  by  the  board ;  he  had  no  thought 
for  anything  save  his  immediate  desires. 

But  no  sooner  had  he  broken  his  every  resolution, 
than,  with  satiety,  his  scruples  all  returned.  Cor- 
quill's  reproofs  again  seemed  portentous.  Fear  of 
the  future  once  more  assailed  the  young  man,  who 
remembered  suddenly  that  this  was  not  the  first  time 
he  had  failed  in  such  a  struggle. 

And  there  began  for  him  a  period  of  alternating 
renunciations  and  relapses.  His  solitary  hours  were 
passed  in  such  shamefaced  vacillation  as  precedes 
the  final  weakness,  or  in  such  gloomy  self-reproach 
as  follows  it.  So  many  discomfitures  ended  by  crip- 
pling his  self-confidence:  he  came  to  make  fresh 
resolutions  mechanically,  without  conviction;  his 
struggles  grew  weaker,  and,  finally,  ended.  All  his 
old  habits  were  again  in  daily  practice. 

He  tried  to  excuse  his  frailty  by  argument.  Was 
the  world  fashioned  for  the  avowal  of  life,  or  the 
denial  of  it?  Were  not  morality  and  right  conduct 
dependent  solely  on  contemporary  opinion?  Who 
knew  but  that  asceticism  was  not  more  abnormal 
than  licentiousness?  If  continence  reacted  on  the 
modern  conscience  in  the  form  of  a  spiritual  reward, 
suppose  there  had  been  no  inheritance  of  a  modern 


EMMA  269 

conscience?  The  pagans,  expansive,  appetent,  un- 
moral, happy  in  their  pursuit  of  every  earthly  pleas- 
ure, lucky  in  their  ignorance  of  Christianity  and  its 
renunciations,  gained,  perhaps,  a  .satisfaction  far 
more  intense  than  did  the  saints  ?  Ah,  to  plunge  into 
pagan  ecstasies,  unhampered  by  the  heavy  chains  of 
Christian  remorse!  But,  alas,  such  possibilities  had 
been  done  for  almost  with  the  hamadryads;  the  set- 
ting of  purple  and  azure  undulations  was  obliterated; 
the  very  air  of  the  earth  was  changed  in  savor  since 
young  men  in  hyacinth  and  gold  had  ceased  wander- 
ing, at  nightfall,  free  from  all  disabling  compunction, 
toward  the  Bacchic  rendezvous,  or  the  grove  of 
Venus  Callipyge.  The  drab  present,  aswarm  with 
elongated,  hypocritical  faces,  blotted  out  the  sheen 
of  a  remote  age,  sensual  and  care-free. 

So  Felix,  full  of  classic  cravings,  had  to  content 
himself  with  Washington  Square,  Coney  Island,  and 
the  table  d'hote  at  Benedetto's. 

On  nights  of  intense  heat,  resonant  in  that  neigh- 
borhood with  an  ignoble  clatter,  when,  in  the  Italian 
restaurant,  the  whirling  wooden  fans  seemed  to  churn 
to  a  more  stifling  consistency  the  vitiated  air,  he  still 
heard,  occasionally,  through  a  meal  of  wilted,  stale, 
and  melting  food,  the  literary  aphorisms  of  Mr.  Lute, 
Miss  Nuncheon,  and  Mrs.  Babbage.  Their  constant 
avidity  for  "shop  talk,"  their  excitement  in  trivial 
debate,  their  relish  for  revealing  superficial  knowl- 
edge, all  that  exuberance  which  has  been  entitled 
"the  enthusiasm  of  the  artistic  parvenu"  caused 
Felix  to  curse  the  luck  which  made  it  necessary  for 


270  PREDESTINED 

him  to  listen  to  "such  trash."  From  sheer  spite, 
masking  his  sneers  with  the  benignity  of  an  attending 
physician,  he  prescribed  for  Mr.  Lute  the  "History 
of  Criticism,"  by  Saintsbury,  for  Miss  Nuncheon 
some  fifteen  volumes  of  essays  by  Sainte-Beuve,  for 
Mrs.  Babbage  all  the  works  of  Kant  and  Spinoza. 
Truth  is,  besides  indulging  in  covert  ironies,  he  made 
the  mistake  of  exhibiting  his  information  and  talents ; 
and  no  doubt  his  acquaintances,  like  humble  travel- 
lers at  an  inn  who  find  themselves  dining  with  a 
stranger  rigged  out  in  jewels  and  fine  clothes,  would 
soon  have  preferred,  for  their  greater  self-satisfaction, 
a  separate  room. 

But  Mrs.  Babbage  was  producing  esoteric  pam- 
phlets that  sold  everywhere  for  a  half  dollar  a  copy ; 
Miss  Nuncheon  had  got  a  publisher  for  a  book  of 
her  short  stories  about  "the  smart  set" ;  Mr.  Lute  had 
joined  the  staff  of  The  Mauve  Monthly,  and  from  the 
office  of  that  magazine  he  sent  Felix  a  patronizing 
letter  asking  for  "a  glance  at  some  of  his  latest 
efforts."  What  mortification!  While  those  three 
were  guarding  bravely  and  letting  shine  their  little 
flames,  he,  burning  with  great  visions,  suffered  at 
the  mere  sight  of  his  writing-table  an  extinguishment 
of  all  his  fire! 

His  melancholy,  his  savage  pessimism,  his  in- 
creasing irritability,  bewildered  Emma.  Finally, 
she  convinced  herself  that  he  had  met  "some  one 
else." 

Her  fits  of  despair  came  on  whenever  he  kissed 
her  carelessly,  avoided  a  caress,  or  remained  pre- 


EMMA  271 

occupied  at  her  plea,  always  uttered  in  the  same 
childish  tones,  "Now  he  must  make  love  to  her." 

"Yes,  yes,  it's  true:  his  kisses  aren't  the  same; 
his  thoughts  are  always  wandering ;  he  is  often  cross 
with  me,  now!  Ah,  I  knew  this  would  happen — I 
was  too  happy ;  it's  my  punishment !  There's  some 
other  woman,  some  silly  little  thing,  some  actress — 
that's  it,  some  old  friend!  Oh,  didn't  I  see  them 
that  night,  in  his  studio,  through  the  crack  of  the 
door — a  lot  of  gay,  cruel-hearted,  mercenary  creat- 
ures? But  could  they  love  him  as  I  do?  Never! 
Never!  No  one  could  ever  love  him  like  me!"  She 
became  limp  in  her  chair ;  her  blue-black  hair,  pressed 
out  against  the  cushion,  accentuated  her  pallor;  her 
white  throat  shook  with  sobs;  and,  her  pupils  dis- 
appearing beneath  her  heavy  eyelids,  she  seemed  to 
be  fainting.  At  such  moments,  her  condition  was  apt 
to  frighten  him.  He  seized  her  cold  hands,  called 
her  name,  ran  for  a  glass  of  water  or  a  flask  of 
cologne. 

"Emma!    Speak  to  me!" 

At  length,  her  pupils  still  invisible,  she  whispered: 

"My  heart!  I  feel  as  if  it  was  going  to  burst." 
And,  in  a  thin  wail: 

"Who  would  care?" 

Pity  seized  him:  he  cast  himself  down  beside  her 
chair,  put  his  arms  round  her,  mingled  with  reassur- 
ing words  a  hundred  kisses  of  a  convincing  warmth. 
Under  this  treatment,  she  revived,  clung  to  him 
weakly,  between  long,  quivering  sighs  made  demands 
that  stirred  his  memory. 


272  PREDESTINED 

"Swear  that  you  love  me,  and  no  one  else!" 

He  vowed  eloquently  that  she  was  all  the  world 
to  him. 

But  for  Felix  the  novelty  of  that  attachment  was  al- 
ready gone :  he  had  found,  beneath  Emma's  innumer- 
able caresses,  protestations,  and  excesses  of  emotion, 
the  monotony  of  a  passion  long  since  thoroughly 
explored,  lacking,  this  time,  the  ornament  that  wealth 
and  beauty,  beauty  and  notoriety,  had  lent  it  for- 
merly. Still,  from  timorousness,  from  want  of  in- 
genuity, from  lassitude  of  will,  he  continued  with 
her,  in  the  midst  of  his  most  ardent  avowals  thinking: 

"What  a  fool  I  was!  Now  how  shall  I  get  rid  of 
her?" 


CHAPTER  XIII 

ON  a  night  of  early  autumn,  Felix  received  a  letter 
and  a  package,  postmarked  in  Paris,  from  Pavin. 
The  letter  announced  that  the  portrait-painter  was 
going  to  spend  another  winter  in  New  York.  The 
package  contained  an  old  volume  of  French  prose — 
the  third  and  last  work  of  Pierre  Buron,  once  Pavin's 
friend,  and  Mme.  Lodbrok's  husband. 

Seating  himself  by  his  writing-table  for  the  evening, 
Felix  began  to  read  this  book. 

Passages  at  once  exact  and  gorgeous,  like  clusters 
of  strange  gems  reflecting  multi-colored  rays,  filled 
the  young  man  with  wonder.  Very  soon  he  knew 
that  he  had  in  hand  one  of  those  masterpieces  which 
can  only  be  "a  communion  of  thought  between  a 
magical  writer  and  an  ideal  reader,"  since  the  author, 
by  ignoring  the  predilections  of  the  many,  by  regard- 
ing solely  the  sensitiveness  of  the  few,  has  made  to 
pride  the  sacrifice  of  contemporary  fame. 

One  was  borne  away  to  regions  obscured  as  if  by 
a  perpetual  twilight,  where  men  and  women,  ren- 
dered well-nigh  indistinguishable  by  the  subtlety  of 
their  emotions,  appeared  to  move  through  ancient 
groves  aglimmer  with  decaying  shrines,  monuments 
to  obsolete  ardors.  These  wanderers,  wraithlike  in 
the  constant  dusk,  seemed  ever  to  gaze  round  them 

273 


274  PREDESTINED 

with  the  uncertain  gestures  of  the  lost,  to  pause  by 
crumbling  columns,  to  heave  a  sigh  at  finding  only 
ruins,  to  utter  tentatively  the  first  measures  of  a  song 
composed  for  an  archaic  use,  to  droop  on  hearing 
that  melody  die  away  without  an  echo,  while  setting 
forth  again,  to  chance,  perhaps,  on  relics  underfoot: 
broken  sword-blades,  little  shattered  idols,  corroded 
diadems,  rotted  treasure,  all  burdens  cast  aside,  in 
other  ages,  by  weary  predecessors.  The  whole  work, 
indeed,  typified  a  labyrinth,  where  solitary  figures 
moved  in  and  out,  tossed  up  their  arms,  and  sobbed, 
"I  have  not  found  it!"  The  last  page  left  this  im- 
pression of  unsatisfied  desire  intact ;  and  the  thought 
remained  that  through  an  eternity  the  same  gloom 
would  cover  the  same  intricacies,  while  the  same 
phantoms  stumbled  on  in  the  same  vain  search. 

It  was  as  if  Felix  were  gazing  on  a  landscape  never 
previously  seen  in  life,  with  that  thought,  which 
makes  the  scalp  tingle,  "Have  I  not  always  dwelt 
here?"  It  seemed  to  him  that  his  soul  for  the  first 
time  mingled  with  another,  the  soul  of  an  unknown, 
to  whom  he  could  have  cried,  "Surely,  in  some  world 
you  and  I  have  been  as  one!" 

He  fell  to  thinking  about  Pierre  Buron.  "Did  he, 
like  those  spectral  creatures  of  his  brain,  still  move 
through  shadows,  or  had  he  given  up  his  quest  ? 

Well  to  have  lost  one's  self  in  such  a  labyrinth,  if 
one  could  leave  on  its  outskirts  so  beautiful  a  relic! 
And  Felix  was  chilled  with  fear,  at  the  thought  that 
he,  when  ultimately  vanishing,  might  leave  behind 
him  nothing  half  so  precious. 


EMMA  275 

He  sprang  up,  and  approached  the  window. 
Already  the  mature  foliage  of  Washington  Square 
was  covered  with  a  bluish  light. 

How  quickly  the  days  succeeded  one  another, 
and  melted  into  years!  He  was  twenty-nine.  Who 
could  foretell  the  duration  of  this  gift  of  life  ? 

To  die  in  an  hour,  to  be  obliterated,  never  to  be 
recalled,  to  have  lived  in  vain! 

Cool  breezes,  bearing  from  afar  a  simple  frag- 
rance, set  to  vibrating  gently  in  his  heart  chords 
long  untouched.  Then  the  dawn,  like  a  golden  fluid, 
descended  upon  distant  towers;  and,  as  the  city  thrust 
its  innumerable  transfigured  roofs  out  of  the  shad- 
ows, there  seemed  to  unroll  "the  kingdoms  of  the 
world,  and  all  the  glory  of  them."  Should  he  not 
wring  therefrom  all  that  he  had  missed  ?  Looking  up 
at  the  vivid  sky,  entranced  by  that  spreading  symbol 
of  renewal,  he  felt  in  himself  the  strength,  the  purity, 
the  splendor,  of  a  new  day.  From  before  him  the 
vapors  of  irresolution  shredded  quite  away,  so  that 
he  discerned  once  more,  in  an  immaculate  zenith, 
the  radiant  pattern  of  a  great  life,  promising  immortal 
consequences. 

That  day,  he  plunged  again  into  work.  Every 
evening,  as  soon  as  he  could  escape  from  Emma,  he 
hurried  home,  cleared  his  writing-table,  strove  to 
reduce  to  black  and  white  the  thoughts  with  which 
he  hoped  to  earn  quickly  an  enduring  fame. 

But  these  thoughts  proved  to  be  too  large  for 
expression  by  such  terms  as  he  could  master.  The 
moment  he  set  pen  to  paper,  he  experienced  the  con- 


276  PREDESTINED 

fusion,  the  impotence,  the  despair,  of  those  who 
dream  that  splendid  edifices  can  be  constructed  with 
a  few  unseasoned  tools. 

He  recalled  the  first  homily  he  had  ever  heard  from 
Corquill,  about  the  preparation  of  the  prospective 
author.  He  returned  to  the  study  of  the  technique 
of  writing. 

Then  he  favored  successively  a  score  of  masters, 
pursued  each  theory  of  exposition  a  little  way,  imi- 
tated and  abandoned  every  mannerism ;  in  his  anxiety 
to  employ  all  artifices  at  once,  accomplished  nothing. 
In  literature,  just  as  in  life,  he  was  seduced  by  every 
whisper  into  excursions  far  afield,  till,  lost  amid 
strange  scenes,  in  a  daze  he  halted,  dejectedly  to 
retrace  his  steps.  At  last,  glimpsing  on  all  sides 
vistas  that  he  would  have  needed  a  dozen  lifetimes 
to  explore  thoroughly,  he  understood  the  magnitude 
of  his  enterprise.  For  him,  there  could  be  no  sudden 
composition  of  masterpieces;  the  waiting  would  be 
tedious  and  fraught  witlvtravail ;  only  a  whole  exist- 
ence devoted  to  labor  could  bring  him  such  honors 
as  he  had  in  mind. 

Nevertheless,  he  determined  to  press  on;  for  he 
felt  that  he  was  made  for  this  attempt  or  none ;  and 
at  the  thought  of  turning  to  some  other  career,  he  be- 
came dizzy,  as  if  on  the  point  of  slipping  into  a  void. 

"Is  it  not  curious,"  he  reflected,  "that  I  alone,  of  a 
family  for  generations  notoriously  unimaginative, 
should  feel  this  impulse?"  Inspecting  his  mother's 
photograph,  he  wondered  whether  that  young  face, 
beautiful,  and  strange  with  smothered  fire,  contained 


EMMA  277 

the  answer  to  his  question.  "Yes,"  he  concluded, 
"  no  doubt  I  owe  my  sensibilities  to  her."  He  poured 
out  a  drink  of  whiskey,  lighted  his  pipe,  and  set  to 
work  again. 

The  clock  ticked  off  the  hours ;  the  pen  scratched 
over  the  paper;  Pat,  stretched  on  the  bed-quilt, 
woke  from  time  to  time,  feebly  wagged  his  tail,  and 
went  to  sleep  again.  Silence  crept  upon  the  city. 
A  bell,  far  off,  struck  two.  Felix  rose,  and  Pat 
scrambled  briskly  from  the  bed.  The  dog  knew  well 
what  movement  of  his  master's  presaged  their  nightly 
promenade  together. 

They  traversed  empty  thoroughfares,  where 
shadows  on  either  side  projected  masses  apparently 
material,  where  converging  rows  of  lights  gave  off 
scintillations  like  small,  white-hot  ingots,  where, 
midway  of  each  perspective,  the  sky  let  down  into 
the  street  its  veils  of  solemn  blue.  Felix  found  the 
side  door  of  a  cafe  ajar.  The  bartender,  who  was 
putting  on  his  hat,  consented  to  remain  till  his  cus- 
tomer had  gulped  down  some  highballs. 

They  turned  homeward,  the  dog  pattering  ahead, 
the  young  man  loitering  to  enjoy  his  exaltation. 
While  passing  the  blank  front  of  Benedetto's  res- 
taurant, he  smiled  pityingly  at  thought  of  Miss 
Nuncheon,  Mr.  Lute,  and  Mrs.  Babbage.  While 
pausing  to  look  down  Waverley  Place,  he  shrugged 
his  shoulders  at  recollection  of  Emma.  Nowadays, 
with  her  most  passionate  speeches  ringing  in  his  ears, 
he  was  like  a  man  listening  to  a  hard-working  but 
inferior  actress  in  a  play  heard  too  often 


278  PREDESTINED 

But  Emma,  like  the  tobacco  he  smoked  to  excess 
without  awaiting  any  craving  for  it,  like  the  liquor 
he  continued  to  drink  just  because  it  remained  at 
hand,  had  become  for  him  a  habit.  Well,  presently 
he  would  leave  her,  too,  behind! 

There  was  still  some  whiskey  in  the  decanter  on  his 
mantel-shelf.  He  finished  it,  and  went  to  bed. 

In  the  morning,  no  matter  how  great  his  lethargy, 
he  had  to  rush  downtown  to  The  Sphere  building. 

On  rising,  he  "pulled  himself  together"  with  a 
cocktail,  which  was  brought  to  his  room  on  a  tray, 
by  a  bell-boy  with  dirty  thumbs.  On  descending 
from  the  elevated  railway  station  at  Chambers 
Street,  he  took  another  drink  in  a  saloon.  This 
stimulus  was  usually  sufficient  until  lunch-time,  even 
if  he  was  not  sent  out,  meanwhile,  to  gather  news. 

But  Felix  now  rarely  escaped  the  newspaper  office. 

From  many  such  excursions  he  had  returned  in  a 
state  of  mind  more  suitable  for  highly  imaginative 
writing  than  for  veracious.  At  length,  the  editor, 
with  a  smile  of  mysterious  benignity,  had  assigned 
Felix  to  the  "copy  desk" — a  table  six  feet  square  in 
the  midst  of  the  office  pandemonium — where  the 
young  man  sat  all  day,  in  the  company  of  three 
mature  journalists,  correcting,  reducing,  and  entitling 
the  manuscripts  of  reporters.  Felix  took  pleasure  in 
slashing  with  a  blue  pencil  the  work  of  Johnny  Livy 
— a  married  man  at  last,  with  two  instalments  paid 
on  a  frame  cottage  in  the  Bronx,  where  he  had  a  fine 
expanse  of  vacant  lots  on  every  side,  a  garden,  the 
size  of  a  counterpane,  bristling  with  stakes  for  peas 


EMMA  279 

and  lima  beans  to  twine  on,  a  street  lamp  directly 
before  his  porch,  and  an  heir  in  prospect.  More- 
over, Livy  was  now  referred  to  by  "copy-boys"  as 
"the  star  reporter."  In  fact,  his  modest  dreams 
were  all  in  process  of  fulfilment. 

He  was  moved,  one  day,  to  acquaint  Felix  with  the 
reason  for  this.  It  was  very  simple :  he  had  become 
a  Christian  Scientist. 

"An  elementary  soul,"  thought  Felix,  his  lip 
curling.  "A  mind  without  metaphysical  sense,  with- 
out ability  for  introspection  and  observance,  for  great 
doubts  or  great  sins.  A  man  who  can  deny  that  pain 
and  ruin  exist,  who  always  sees  the  world  as  does 
a  child  on  a  clear  day.  What  immense  regions  of 
experience  are  closed  to  him!  Better  to  suffer,  than 
to  be  half  alive,  like  that!"  And,  as  Livy  marched 
jauntily  from  the  office  on  a  fresh  hunt  for  news, 
Felix  returned  to  his  copy-reading,  which  he  detested. 

He  missed  the  excitement  of  the  chase  throughout 
the  city,  the  swiftly  alternating  contact  with  comedy 
and  tragedy,  the  variety  of  excessive  scenes  unveiled 
to  the  reporter,  who  enjoyed  continually  the  nervous 
gratification  felt  by  those  witnessing,  in  safety,  a  rescue 
of  life,  a  ruinous  conflagration,  the  death  of  a  criminal, 
the  room  where  a  murder  had  just  been  committed. 
The  editor,  with  whose  professional  phlegm  a  consti- 
tutional kindliness  often  struggled  for  expression,  had 
deprived  Felix  of  two  "stimulants"  instead  of  one. 

As  a  result,  every  afternoon,  when  the  last  edition 
of  The  Evening  Sphere  had  gone  to  press,  his  pent-up 
appetite  for  excitement  demanded  satisfaction.  After 


280  PREDESTINED 

lingering  in  cafes  on  the  way  uptown,  he  reached 
Washington  Square  with  the  feeling  of  defenceless- 
ness — as  if  at  the  weakening  of  delicate  protective 
qualities — which  invariably  prefaced  his  inebriety. 

Once,  when  in  such  a  state,  he  approached  his 
hotel  to  see,  before  the  entrance,  a  familiar-looking 
figure  in  blue  serge.  It  was  Corquill,  who  had  called 
for  the  purpose  of  asking  Felix  out  to  dinner. 

This  invitation  irritated  the  young  man :  it  seemed 
to  him  that  the  novelist,  trading,  perhaps,  on  the  two- 
hundred-dollar  loan,  was  subjecting  him  to  a  sort  of 
espionage.  Planting  himself  firmly  on  his  heels,  he 
enunciated,  carefully: 

"Many  thanks.     But  it's  impossible  this  evening." 

The  celebrity,  at  that  rebuff,  only  nodded  gravely. 

"Well,  then,  some  other  time." 

As  Corquill  turned  away,  Felix,  ashamed  of  him- 
self, suggested  that  they  walk  a  short  distance  up 
Fifth  Avenue  together.  They  set  out  northward 
through  Washington  Square. 

In  the  light  of  the  sunset,  beneath  masses  of 
autumnal  leafage,  some  vagabonds,  occupying 
wooden  benches,  rested  unshaven  chins  on  soiled 
shirt-bosoms,  or  let  large,  red  hands  hang  down  in 
front  of  threadbare  knees.  One  fellow,  small  and 
frail,  his  broken  shoes  stretched  out,  his  beard  up- 
tilted,  a  felt  hat  covering  his  face,  gave  vent  to  a  suc- 
cession of  rattling  snores. 

"The  reward  of  his  desires,"  was  Corquill's  com- 
ment. 

Felix,  in  low,  unsteady  tones,  retorted: 


EMMA  281 

"Perhaps  he,  too,  in  the  only  way  he  knows,  is  a 
seeker  after  the  ideal." 

A  poor  way,  according  to  Corquill,  if  his  business 
were  the  reproduction  of  his  findings.  But,  for  that 
matter,  it  was  the  same  in  any  work:  temperance 
and  achievement  went  hand  in  hand,  as  did  excess 
and  failure.  All  tales  of  genius  accentuated  by 
drugs  and  drink  were  absurd.  To  Poe,  De  Quincey, 
Coleridge,  even  Baudelaire  and  Verlaine,  common 
sense  had  given,  at  last,  the  credit  for  their  achieve- 
ments. It  was  in  the  sober  hour  that  a  man  produced 
work  acceptable  to  others. 

But  Felix  was  staring  at  a  distant  clock  with  an  air 
of  stupefaction. 

"Is  it  possible!  An  hour  later  than  I  thought! 
Will  you  pardon  me?" 

And  he  took  himself  off,  consumed  with  chagrin 
and  rage. 

So  he  had  come  to  the  pass  where  his  friends  be- 
lieved they  had  to  bombard  him,  at  every  meeting, 
with  remonstrances!  That  settled  it;  he  would  show 
them,  now,  one  and  all! 

When  in  his  sober  senses,  he  discovered  that  each 
good  determination  was  weakened  by  the  memory 
of  countless  similar  pledges,  made  only  to  be  broken. 
The  piled-up  failures  of  his  will  had  become  a 
crushing  incubus,  under  which  he  struggled  ever  the 
more  feebly. 

But  late  at  night,  when  his  desires  were  satiated, 
when  he  was  flushed  with  self-confidence,  he  made 
vows  apparently  so  easy  of  accomplishment  that  he 


282  PREDESTINED 

went  to  bed  convinced  that  the  morrow  would  usher 
in  a  different  sort  of  life.  In  the  morning,  waking  to 
find  his  cravings  once  more  active,  he  relapsed,  with 
scarcely  a  thought  of  his  midnight  resolutions. 

Nevertheless,  a  cancerous  remorse  robbed  every 
aberrant  act  of  pleasure.  At  the  bottom  of  each 
draught  lay  bitter  dregs. 

Therefore,  his  hours  were  punctuated  with  little 
struggles  and  defeats.  When  he  had  smoked  till  he 
felt  premonitions  of  nausea,  when  he  had  drunk  till 
mental  clarity  was  slipping  from  him,  he  threw  away 
his  tobacco,  or  emptied  his  decanter  down  the  waste- 
pipe.  This  necessitated  his  buying  more  cigars  and 
whiskey — an  expensive  process  for  a  young  man  liv- 
ing on  twenty-five  dollars  a  week. 

Such  conflicts  gradually  filled  his  life,  engrossed 
his  thoughts,  nearly  drove  from  his  consciousness  all 
appreciation  of  the  outer  world.  In  the  newspaper 
office,  his  work  was  insufficient;  at  home,  his  writing 
came  to  a  standstill.  This  paralysis  of  energy  in- 
creased his  wretchedness. 

If  only  he  could  escape  the  neighborhood  of  his 
temptations!  Oh,  for  some  Arcadian  spot  far  be- 
yond the  zone  of  provocation,  some  remote,  un- 
sullied isle,  where,  in  a  tropic  silence,  in  a  solitude 
that  was  not  loneliness,  one  might  live  caressed  by 
pure  winds  and  pellucid  waves,  thrilled  by  the  savor 
of  the  sea  and  the  aroma  of  flowers,  the  heart  expand- 
ing to  perfection  beneath  friendly  stars!  But  such 
regions  existed  only  in  imagination,  or  in  another 
world  than  his.  The  prisoner  of  his  environment,  he 


EMMA  283 

could  not  escape  one  of  its  detriments — not  even 
Emma. 

As  for  her,  maybe  she  accepted  his  weakness— 
despite  her  belief  that  it  rendered  him  susceptible  to 
"every  pretty  face" — as  something  which  made  asso- 
ciation with  him  possible.  Resting  her  small,  soft 
hands  on  his  shoulders  in  an  almost  insidious  caress, 
she  would  murmur: 

"Why  do  you  torment  yourself  by  fighting  against 
your  nature  ?  If  you  changed,  you  would  be  some  one 
else — not  yourself.    No,  no;  she  wants  him  as  he  is!" 
Watching  her  gloomily,  Felix  asked: 
"Did  you  give  that  advice  to  your  husband?" 
When  she  had  comprehended  this  question,  she 
replied,  in  haste: 

"It  was  different  with  him.  I  should  have  known 
what  was  going  to  happen :  the  weakness  was  in  his 
family.  But  with  you,  it's  just  that  you're  young. 
All  young  men  are  so;  and,  when  they're  like  you, 
they  get  over  it  naturally,  as  you  will." 
"How  do  you  know  that  I'll  get  over  it?" 
She  crept  closer,  and  gazed  at  him  in  adoration. 
"Ah,  because  of  something  about  you,  I  don't 
know  what,  that  makes  me  sure!  Just  to  look  at 
you  one  can  tell  you've  got  great  things  before  you. 
It  shines  in  your  eyes;  it  makes  me  feel  small,  and 
frightened,  and  jealous.  Sometimes,  I  say  to  my- 
self, 'How  I  wish  he  didn't  have  it!'  But  all  the 
while,  I  know  that  on  account  of  it  I  worship  you." 
And,  clinging  to  him,  she  began  to  tremble,  and  to 
sob: 


284  PREDESTINED 

"  You'll  never  leave  me  ?    You'll  never  leave  me  ?  " 

Then,  suddenly,  her  fingers  sank  into  his  shoulders; 
her  lips  parted  on  her  teeth ;  in  her  white  face  her  eyes 
blazed  as  if  through  a  tragic  mask.  Wildly,  she 
declared: 

"If  you  did,  it  would  mean  that  all  my  suspicions 
were  true,  that  there  were  others!  All  right;  take 
warning;  it  would  be  your  last  act  on  earth !  Should 
I  care  what  I  did,  then?" 

Doubtless  they  became  frightened  simultaneously; 
for  she  threw  herself  on  his  neck,  besought  pardon, 
protested,  in  broken  accents,  that  "she  didn't  mean 
it."  Felix  sent  forth  a  silent  prayer  for  Lew's 
return. 

If  he  but  knew  the  fellow's  whereabouts!  "There 
must  be  some  way  of  forcing  a  man  to  live  with 
an  inoffensive  wife."  But  Lew  had  vanished,  as  it 
seemed,  forever,  in  that  maze  of  barrooms  which 
Felix  now  penetrated  nightly. 

"His  work"  was  his  excuse  to  leave  Emma  early 
in  the  evening.  From  Waverley  Place  he  set  out 
with  the  words,  which  no  longer  deluded  him,  "For 
the  last  time." 

Leaning  against  a  bar,  in  the  company  of  garrulous 
strangers,  he  passed,  sometimes,  from  an  ostensible 
stimulation  of  brain  and  body  to  a  reactionary  torpor, 
and,  on  rare  occasions  of  protracted  drinking,  to  an 
extinguishment  of  all  conscious  faculties.  In  this 
plight,  he  rambled  blindly  at  large,  engaged  in 
unknown  adventures,  next  morning  woke  in  his  bed 
without  remembrance  of  arriving  home.  But  wher- 


EMMA  285 

ever  he  went,  Pat  was  at  his  heels,  peering  upward 
with  the  bewildered  look  of  a  dog  that  misses  intui- 
tively in  his  master  the  intelligence  which  guides 
their  intercourse. 

Once  Felix  came  to  his  senses  bolt  upright  in  an 
alley  thick  with  lamp-posts,  where  fire-escapes 
dangled  in  mid-air,  and,  in  the  shabby  doorways 
of  invisible  houses,  black  visages  seemed  hovering 
without  bodies  underneath.  Negroes  were  pressing 
round  him;  his  ears  buzzed  with  whispers  of  a 
sinister  intonation ;  a  hand  began  to  feel  his  pockets. 

He  jerked  himself  loose,  and  swung  his  fists  at 
random.  The  snarl  of  a  dog  was  followed  by  a 
scream  of  pain. 

Felix  struggled  desperately  to  regain  his  vision. 
The  scene  cleared;  he  saw  a  swarm  of  aboriginal 
faces  closing  in.  But  another  howl  resounded. 

"Kill  the  dog!  Don't  shoot  toward  the  cobbles! 
Get'a  club!" 

A  husky  voice,  at  Felix's  elbow,  bellowed,  in  reply: 

"That'll  do,  now!  Any  more  out  of  the  bunch 
of  yez,  and  I'll  call  the  reserves  to  break  every  head 
in  the  block." 

And,  in  the  ensuing  hush,  a  fat  Irishman,  wearing 
a  sack  suit  and  a  derby  hat,  escorted  Felix  from  the 
alley. 

They  walked,  as  Felix  thought,  for  miles.  They 
rode  in  a  trolley-car,  where  a  conductor  protested 
against  admitting  the  bull-terrier  till  Felix's  pro- 
tector drew  from  his  trousers  pocket,  along  with  a 
handful  of  small  change,  a  nickel  badge.  Presently, 


286  PREDESTINED 

trees  surrounded  them:  they  were  in  Washington 
Square.  And  Felix  reached  his  room  in  the  hotel 
before  realizing  that  he  had  not  once  observed  the 
features  of  the  detective,  or  obtained  his  name,  or 
thanked  him  for  his  services. 

Next  day,  the  young  man  was  smitten  with  horror 
and  disgust.  But  was  this  horror  salutary,  would 
this  disgust  be  permanent?  He  feared  that  there 
was  no  strength  for  good  left  in  him.  Yet  were  not 
some  men  able  to  draw  strength  from  God  ? 

That  night,  he  went  to  church. 

It  was  a  breathless  evening  in  September — an 
evening  of  mysterious  streets,  of  blue  stars,  of  purple 
skies  into  which  the  upper  stories  of  tall  buildings 
melted,  so  that  high-set,  golden  window  lights  sug- 
gested the  casements  of  an  imminent  heaven.  On 
Fifth  Avenue,  at  Fiftieth  Street,  there  rose  above  a 
gray  bulk  the  twin  spires  of  the  Roman  Catholic 
cathedral. 

Within,  all  was  vague,  cool,  and  subtly  scented 
with  stale  incense  fumes:  one  breathed  a  redolence 
like  the  exhalation  from  a  tomb  where  something 
imperial  and  ancient  lies  embalmed  in  fragrant 
spices. 

Lengthwise  of  the  cathedral,  on  either  side  of  the 
centre  aisle,  six  massive  columns,  pale  below,  grow- 
ing dusky  in  mid-air,  towered  to  an  indistinct  region 
of  groined  arches.  Behind  each  colonnade,  under 
sombrous  expanses  of  stained  glass,  appeared  some 
lateral  chapels,  unilluminated,  furnished  with  effigies 
or  pictures.  But  far  ahead,  beyond  the  perspective 


EMMA  287 

of  the  columns,  beyond  parallel  pew-backs  seemingly 
as  innumerable  as  the  ripples  of  the  sea,  beyond  pul- 
pit, chancel  rail,  and  rising  steps,  a  refulgence,  as  of 
a  sun,  dispelled  the  shadows,  and,  in  its  core,  the 
white  reredos,  rich  with  sculptured  ornament,  floated 
upward  from  behind  the  sparkling  altar. 

Felix  entered  the  last  pew,  sat  down,  and  gazed  at 
the  remote  splendor  of  the  sanctuary.  Here,  surely, 
one  should  be  able  to  feel  the  presence  of  a  deity. 
Should  he  pray?  In  what  words,  with  what  assur- 
ance of  an  auditor? 

Men,  after  all,  had  evolved  with  their  own  hands 
the  grandeur  of  this  place — had  raised  the  altar,  had 
composed  the  reredos,  had  lighted  the  candles,  had 
produced  the  whole  effect,  ^sthetically,  it  was  sat- 
isfying; but  who  knew  if  a  god  was  satisfied  to  call 
this  his  especial  abode  ? 

Something  within  him  answered,  "God  is  wher- 
ever hearts  are  laid  bare  in  supplication." 

"Why,  then  he  must  be  here." 

A  few  heads  showed  above  the  pew  backs;  to  the 
right,  before  the  nearest  lateral  chapel,  a  woman  was 
kneeling;  occasionally  a  worshipper  entered  from 
the  street,  dipped  finger  in  a  marble  basin,  crossed 
himself,  bowed  toward  the  altar,  noiselessly  glided 
down  the  aisle. 

Lowered  faces,  timid  attitudes,  and  sinking  knees ; 
the  life-long  repetition  of  historic  gestures  of  humility; 
awe  and  fear  unshaken  by  the  eternal  silence.  Not 
the  part  of  these  to  cry  out,  "Whence,  why,  and 
whither?"  or  to  send  forth  the  plaint,  "How  do  I 


288  PREDESTINED 

know  that  there  are  ears  to  listen?"  For  them,  the 
path  worn  broad  by  myriads  of  feet;  but  for  Felix, 
the  labyrinth. 

He  rose,  and  turned  his  back  on  the  altar.  The 
woman  kneeling  before  the  chapel  attracted  his  atten- 
tion. He  approached  her.  It  was  Miss  Qewan. 
Her  eyes  remained  fixed  on  a  statuette  of  the  Virgin ; 
the  beads  of  a  rosary  slipped  through  her  fingers; 
her  lips  were  moving. 

"Well  for  her,"  thought  Felix,  and  went  away. 

Yet,  if  there  was  no  omnipresent  Ideal,  whence  this 
universal  instinct  for  self -betterment  ?  Every  hour, 
it  struggled  for  foothold  in  his  heart,  warred  with 
his  frailty,  and  suffered  agonies  at  defeat.  Like  the 
Mahomet  of  Victor  Hugo,  FelLx  could  have  said..  "I 
am  the  vile  field  of  sublime  combats." 

His  conscience,  from  so  much  friction,  became 
raw:  he  reached  that  state  of  nervousness,  border- 
ing on  hysteria,  which  is  full  of  morbid  scruples  con- 
cerning even  the  slightest  misdemeanors.  His  every 
act  appeared  despicable  to  him;  and  in  this  moral 
revulsion  was  included  the  thought  of  his  behavior 
toward  Emma.  Without  even  the  excuse  of  love,  he 
had  involved  that  pliant,  defenceless  creature  in  his 
transgressions ! 

Emma,  however,  still  ignorant  of  his  nocturnal 
drinking-bouts,  aware  only  of  an  intemperance  which, 
in  comparison  with  Lew's,  seemed  moderate,  could 
not  have  understood  Felix's  low  spirits.  She  ascribed 
them,  no  doubt,  when  her  suspicions  of  his  disloyalty 
were  not  active,  to  that  incomprehensible  attribute, 


EMMA  289 

an  "artistic  temperament."  She  had  picked  up 
somewhere  the  idea  that  genius  was  to  be  measured 
by  eccentricity;  in  consequence,  the  more  peculiar 
Felix's  behavior,  the  surer  Emma  felt  that  he  was 
developing  into  a  prodigy.  In  fact,  her  belief  in  his 
talents  and  prospects  was  so  firm,  that  when  speaking 
of  his  future  she  became  excited,  as  if  in  thought  she 
were  sharing  the  fame  and  fortune  she  predicted  for 
him.  Then  her  face  clouded,  and  she  remained 
staring  at  him  with  lips  aquiver,  beseechingly. 
Sometimes,  she  would  end  a  long  silence  with  an  out- 
burst of  sobs,  in  which  expressions  of  fear  for  her 
own  future  were  mingled  with  wishes  that  she  had 
never  seen  him.  "It  had  been  her  undoing." 

Such  statements  completed,  so  to  speak,  the  lacera- 
tion of  his  conscience.  Seized  with  a  pity  as  de- 
moralizing as  love,  he  strove  to  comfort  Emma  by 
adding  his  compunction  to  hers,  by  mingling  with 
her  tears  his  own,  by  stammering  that  he  was,  indeed, 
a  villain. 

At  this  cue,  she  was  quick  to  enter  on  a  new  part. 
She  began  systematically  to  weave  herself  into  his 
remorses. 

She  recalled  her  childhood,  her  convent  days,  her 
maidenhood,  with  a  wealth  of  anecdotes,  touching  in 
their  simplicity,  to  show  how  devoutly  and  inno- 
cently she  had  begun,  how  admirable  had  been  her 
fitting  for  an  edifying  life.  She  recurred  to  her  years 
of  matrimony,  throughout  which — one  gathered — 
she  had  remained  submissive  to  misfortune,  faithful 
to  her  unfaithful  husband,  confident  in  her  darkest 


290  PREDESTINED 

hours  of  the  near  presence  of  God.  "But  now! 
It's  all  changed:  I  can  never  go  back  to  the  convent; 
I  can  never  find  heart  to  enter  a  church,  or  make  con- 
fession, or  pray  to  the  Virgin!  Oh,  do  you  know 
you've  brought  me  to  a  terrible  pass?" 

These  lamentations,  appearing  logical  enough  to 
his  distracted  mind,  were  of  a  quality  to  give  the 
screw  its  last  turn.  He  had,  it  seemed,  deprived  her 
wantonly  of  the  very  spiritual  support  that  he  was 
groping  for.  Thenceforth,  it  was  Felix  who  be- 
sought indulgence,  and  Emma  who  condescended  to 
lenity.  He  discovered  that  a  tortured  conscience 
could  engender  a  sense  of  obligation  no  less  strong 
than  if  produced  by  passion. 

How  should  he  expiate  this  offence?  By  leaving 
her?  Too  late!  Besides,  even  if  he  could  have 
gathered  sufficient  power  of  will  to  do  so,  she  would 
undoubtedly  have  pursued  him,  with  who  knew  what 
consequences.  He  had  for  one  moment  seen  her 
face,  habitually  weak  and  tender,  transformed  by  the 
insane  rage  of  jealousy.  There  was  another  woman 
concealed  in  her,  of  whom  he  was  afraid:  when  he 
scrutinized  her  lowered  eyelashes,  lax  mouth,  and 
listless  hands,  he  was  like  a  voyager  gazing  on  a 
placid  flood,  with  the  realization  that  beneath  its 
calm  lie  hidden  the  elements  of  fatal  storms. 

His  sick  nerves  no  longer  had  resiliency  enough  for 
any  contest ;  he  suffered  at  once  from  lassitude,  con- 
trition, mental  incoherency,  and  foreboding.  Again 
he  asked  himself  helplessly  the  old  question,  "What 
will  the  outcome  be?"  Nothing  had  been  heard  of 


EMMA  291 

Lew  for  nearly  a  year:  every  day  the  chance  of  his 
return  seemed  slighter. 

Emma  talked  of  applying  for  a  divorce.  No 
court  in  the  State  could  well  refuse  her  a  favorable 
decree;  and  then  at  least  she  would  be  legally  at 
liberty.  "Suppose,"  she  asked  Felix,  sighing,  "you 
had  met  me  when  we  were  younger,  and  I  was 
free?" 

It  chanced,  one  night,  when  she  was  seated  in  her 
chair,  sewing,  that  he  discovered  on  the  bureau  a 
scrap  of  paper,  scribbled  over  in  her  handwriting 
with  the  name,  "Emma  Piers."  She  started,  made 
as  if  to  rise,  and  put  out  a  detaining  hand.  Then  she 
subsided;  a  wave  of  red  swept  across  her  cheeks; 
and,  while  stitching  rapidly,  she  ventured: 

"Have  you  ever  noticed  how  like  our  two  names 
are?" 

But  their  eyes  met,  and  neither  was  deceived  when 
he  returned,  in  a  strange  voice: 

"Why  yes,  it's  almost  a  coincidence.  What  are 
you  working  at  so  hard?" 

"Something  of  yours." 

She  darned  his  stockings,  mended  his  shirts,  tight- 
ened loose  buttons  on  his  coats.  Articles  of  his  apparel 
were  always  lying  near  her  work-basket;  his  books 
decorated  her  mantel-shelf;  his  cigars  were  in  her 
bureau  drawer.  He  had  to  confess  that  her  room 
had  come  to  seem  more  homelike  to  him  than  his 
own. 

Then,  too,  she  now  took  care  of  the  bull-terrier 
while  Felix  was  downtown  at  work:  it  was  from  her 


2Q  2  PREDESTINED 

doorway  that  Pat  sprang  upon  his  master,  every  even- 
ing, in  ecstatic  welcome.  But  Emma's  domination 
did  not  yet  include  the  dog. 

"Look  at  him,  Felix!  When  you're  here,  he  won't 
come  if  I  call,  he  won't  even  glance  at  me.  And 
all  I  do  for  him:  all  the  petting  he  gets  when  we're 
alone,  all  the  chicken-bones!  A  grateful  animal,  I 
must  say!  You  bad  dog,  come  here,  sir!  Felix, 
send  him  to  me." 

"Pat,  go  to  your  mistress." 

At  that  last  word,  her  eyes  glowed,  and  she 
smothered  the  reluctant  brute  with  kisses. 

One  night  in  October,  Felix  entered  to  find  her 
huddled  in  a  chair,  her  arms  hanging  limply  toward 
the  carpet,  her  face  swollen  from  weeping,  her  mouth 
a  thin,  crooked  line  telling  of  poignant  grief  sup- 
pressed. He  stood  still,  oblivious  to  Pat's  onslaught 
— sickened  by  a  premonition  of  calamity. 

"Something  has  happened?    What  is  it?" 

Fixing  him  with  a  look  of  unutterable  woe,  she 
held  out  a  telegram. 

"Read  that,"  she  gasped. 

He  could  not  have  grown  fainter  if  the^telegram  had 
been  his  death-warrant.  It  was  from  the  superin- 
tendent of  a  public  hospital  in  Chicago,  and  an- 
nounced "the  decease  of  Lewis  Meers,  from  serous 
meningitis." 

After  a  while,  his  lips  formed  the  words: 

"It  seems  to  affect  you  deeply." 

Indignantly,  she  cried  out: 

"Oh,  have  I  a  heart  of  stone?    Can  I  forget  the 


EMMA  293 

past — all  the  happy  days  when  I  was  in  love  for  the 
first  time  ?  Yes,  yes,  he  made  me  happy  once !  And 
now,  he's  dead;  he'll  never  come  back;  he'll  be 
buried  way  off  there — my  own  husband,  who  took 
me  home  from  the  altar!" 

She  rose,  galvanized,  as  it  were,  by  a  new  thought. 
She  approached  Felix,  and  wound  her  arms  deliber- 
ately about  him.  Her  head  sank  back  and  from 
beneath  her  dishevelled  hair  two  blinding  flames 
leaped  forth.  In  a  breathless  voice,  she  uttered 
what,  to  his  whirling  senses,  was  no  mere  statement, 
but  a  command: 

"Now  I  have  no  one  in  the  world  but  you!" 

In  this  form,  then,  his  expiation  descended  on 
him? 

The  same  week,  they  were  married. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

ONE  driven  by  violent  passions  upon  a  field  of 
honor,  and  there  brought  low,  grows  sane  enough  in 
his  extremity  to  utter  from  the  heart,  "So  all  my 
great  dreams  are  wrecked  by  the  hallucinations  of  an 
hour!"  Thus  Felix,  seeing  on  Emma's  finger  the 
new  wedding  ring. 

It  was  as  if  she  had  resumed  before  his  eyes  all  the 
faults  he  had  discerned  in  her  at  their  first  acquaint- 
ance. Her  physical  and  mental  deficiencies,  her 
social  and  educational  shortcomings,  in  fine,  her  every7 
imperfection,  reinvested  her,  like  a  depreciating 
dowry,  to  reduce  to  a  chap-fallen  state  that  young 
man  who,  his  life  long,  had  sighed  so  windily  for  a 
perfect  sentimental  union.  And  to  this  relationship, 
of  which  he  had  already  wearied,  he  was  bound,  it 
seemed,  till  death.  "Well,  the  catastrophe  was  of  a 
piece  with  his  whole  career.  Fate  was  in  it — the 
workings  of  an  unknown  power  malevolently  dis- 
posed." 

As  for  Emma,  a  few  words  read  by  a  stranger  from 
a  prayer-book,  a  circlet  of  gold  to  wear,  an  engrossed 
certificate  to  cherish,  and  she  was  as  happy  as  if 
assured  of  ten  thousand  cloudless  days.  Now  for 
the  home  of  her  pent-up  desires,  wherein  her  joy 

might  come  to  its  full  flower! 

294 


EMMA  295 

After  rummaging  half  the  city  without  any  evi- 
dence of  fatigue,  she  informed  Felix  excitedly  that 
the  ideal  place  was  found.  For  thirty-five  dollars 
a  month  one  could  rent  four  rooms  and  a  bath  in 
a  flat-house  on  Second  Avenue  below  Fourteenth 
Street. 

"Second  Avenue!"  he  ejaculated,  in  dismay. 

"But,  my  darling,  you  don't  know  the  district.  A 
beautiful,  broad  street  with  trolley-cars,  old-fash- 
ioned, brown-stone  boarding-houses  opposite,  with 
high  steps,  and  trees  in  real  front  yards,  scarcely  a 
shop  in  sight,  and  Stuyvesant  Square  only  two  short 
blocks  to  the  north.  I  admit  the  rooms  aren't  big; 
but  then,  think  of  the  price  for  such  a  genteel 
location!" 

"Genteel,  with  the  Bowery  practically  beginning 
one  block  westward?" 

But  he  should  be  able  to  hide  his  declension  well  in 
such  a  spot  ? 

The  flat  was  on  the  third  floor  of  a  yellow  brick 
building  with  two  fire-escapes  suspended  from  top  to 
bottom  of  the  facade.  In  the  entry,  one  observed  a 
double  row  of  metal  letter-boxes,  name-plates,  and 
bell-buttons.  The  front  door  was  opened  from  the 
various  apartments  by  means  of  an  automatic  latch. 
Darkness  enshrouded  the  steep  staircases;  at  each 
landing  appeared  four  doors  with  frosted  glass  panels 
upon  which,  as  one  passed,  were  stamped  occasion- 
ally, in  silhouette,  sharp,  female  profiles  with  frowsy 
hair,  in  listening  attitudes.  Entering  the  flat,  one 
stood  in  a  "parlor,"  its  area  about  twelve  feet  by  ten, 


296  PREDESTINED 

its  walls  papered  in  a  pattern  of  flamboyant  poppies, 
its  mantel-piece,  an  exceptional  specimen  of  jig-saw 
work,  painted  white  and  then  daubed  with  ara- 
besques of  gilt.  This  nook  gave  upon  the  bed- 
chamber, still  smaller,  and  ventilated  by  an  air-shaft. 
Thence  one  had  access,  through  the  bathroom,  to- 
the  dining-room,  of  the  same  size  as  the  parlor,  though 
not  so  well  off  for  decorations.  The  kitchen  ended 
the  suite,  with  a  gas  stove,  a  wash-tub,  a  cupboard, 
and  a  sink,  encroaching  on  the  floor  space. 

Emma,  however,  was  enthusiastic,  and,  as  Felix 
put  on  the  air  of  a  man  who  no  longer  cares  what 
happens,  they  rented  the  flat. 

She  got  out  of  storage  the  relics  of  her  former 
matrimonial  venture.  Some  Brussels  carpet,  by 
dint  of  dexterous  patching,  was  made  to  cover  the 
floors.  A  marble-topped  table  and  three  chairs  of 
Flemish  oak — the  chair-backs  ornamented  with  hand- 
painted  dogs'  heads — furnished  the  parlor.  A  brass 
bedstead  and  a  bureau  filled  the  sleeping-chamber, 
while  the  dining-room  was  rendered  nearly  imprac- 
ticable by  a  plethora  of  walnut  chairs.  Besides  these 
articles,  Emma  had  saved  not  only  her  best  china- 
ware,  table  linen,  and  blankets,  but  also  some  knick- 
knacks  that  caused  Felix  to  marvel  at  the  effrontery 
of  their  manufacturers.  All  the  same,  one  had 
Emma  to  thank — and,  indeed,  Lew  as  well — for  a 
considerable  saving  of  expense. 

She  unearthed  a  crayon  portrait  of  the  defunct 
benefactor;  and  Felix  inspected,  in  silence,  the  like- 
ness of  a  robust-looking  fellow  with  staring  eyes  and  a 


EMMA  297 

romantic  mustache.  He  thought  his  predecessor 
ridiculous. 

By  tacit  agreement,  the  crayon  portrait  was  shoved 
behind  the  bureau.  When  the  mirror  had  been 
slightly  tilted,  Felix  was  sometimes  startled  to  see 
Lew's  eyes  peering  at  him  through  the  crack. 

Emma,  with  these  souvenirs  round  her,  was  moved 
frequently  to  reverie.  She  recalled,  with  solemn  face, 
the  day  when  she  had  selected  the  Brussels  carpet, 
when  her  late  mother-in-law  had  presented  her  with 
the  steel  engraving  of  " Queen  Victoria  and  the  Prince 
Consort,"  when  her  first  husband,  while  still  a  bride- 
groom, had  brought  home  the  bisque  statuette  of  an 
infant  crawling  on  all  fours — a  gift  intended  to  ap- 
pease her  dissatisfaction  at  not  yet  having  a  baby  of 
her  own.  Through  empty  years,  she  had  come  to 
regard  this  image  with  a  melancholy  tenderness:  it 
embellished  the  parlor  mamel-piece,  and  the  dusting 
of  it  was  a  ceremony. 

They  employed  no  servant:  Emma  declared  she 
would  not  willingly  have  had  one  anyway,  just  then. 
She  was  free  again  to  bustle  in  a  kitchen  of  her  own, 
there  to  concoct,  every  afternoon,  dainties  for  some 
one  she  loved.  Felix  was  apt  to  find  her  at  the 
bread-board,  her  plump  forearms  covered  with  flour, 
a  checkered  apron  drawn  tight  across  her  breast,  her 
face  made  girlish  by  a  smile  at  once  mysterious  and 
doting. 

"  Guess  what  I've  got  for  my  boy's  dinner  to-night ! " 

"Poor  little  Emma,"  thought  Felix,  and,  despite 
her  apparent  conviction  that  here  a  demigod  was 


298  PREDESTINED 

stooping,  he  insisted  on  learning  how  to  dry  the 
dinner  dishes.  Straightening  herself  before  the  dish- 
pan,  she  would  say,  with  dewy  eyes: 

"Some  time,  we'll  look  back  at  these  first  days  and 
.laugh." 

But  how  could  she  fit  herself  for  companionship 
with  him  in  that  apotheosis?  She  tried  furtively  to 
understand  his  books,  to  improve  her  chirography  and 
spelling,  to  learn  the  French  language  from  a  primer 
bought  at  the  corner  news-stand. 

Felix,  however,  made  small  progress  toward  fame 
and  affluence.  His  "inspirations" — rarer  than  ever 
in  this  unaesthetic  spot — were  smothered,  as  it  were, 
at  their  incipience  by  kitchen  vapors.  Soaring  fan- 
cies descended  with  a  crash  at  the  rattle  of  dishes 
and  the  clacking  of  dumb-waiter  ropes;  the  pen 
slipped  from  his  fingers;  he  sat  contemplating  the 
gilded  mantel-piece  and  the  hand-painted  chair-backs 
with  a  sensation  of  being  lost  far  from  his  own.  Fre- 
quently, he  was  oppressed  by  such  despair  as  one 
feels  in  a  nightmare  the  motive  of  which  is  some  vast, 
irremediable  misfortune.  Finally,  his  irritability,  at 
the  slightest  gusts  of  disagreeable  occurrences  blazed 
into  rage;  and  the  brunt  of  all  his  outbursts  had  to 
be  borne  by  Emma.  He  considered,  indeed,  that  she 
was  responsible  "for  everything." 

He  chafed  at  her  grammatical  errors,  her  bour- 
geois tastes,  her  interminable  tales  of  Lew,  her  trite 
caresses.  He  rediscovered  the  little  horizontal  scar 
across  her  nose;  and  the  sound  of  her  small  teeth 
crunching  celery  exasperated  him.  The  dozen  pho- 


EMMA  299 

tographs  of  her,  all  hanging  against  the  parlor  walls, 
seemed  to  multiply,  to  an  extent  almost  unbearable, 
her  personality. 

Sometimes,  he  came  home  half  tipsy,  could  not 
endure  the  thought  of  spending  an  entire  evening  in 
the  flat,  escaped  the  house  on  false  errands,  returned 
toward  midnight,  dizzy  and  sullen.  Her  amazement 
at  discovering  the  full  extent  of  his  indulgences  in- 
creased his  choler.  Violent  scenes  ensued. 

"Oh,  that  I  should  have  all  this  to  go  through 
again!  When  you  come  home  so,  my  old  life  rushes 
back  to  me,  and  I  could  almost  die!" 

"If  I  don't  suit  you,  why  were  you  so  keen  on 
catching  me?" 

"Ah,  to  reproach  me  with  my  love!  But  did  I 
ever  suspect  that  you  were  going  to  remind  me  so 
much  of  the  other?" 

"The  other!  That's  all  I  hear.  A  devilish  pity 
he  kicked  the  bucket!" 

She  rolled  up  her  large  eyes,  fell  back  against  the 
wall,  clapped  both  hands  to  her  bosom. 

"My  heart!  It'll  break  some  day — yes,  and  you'll 
be  glad." 

Perhaps,  at  such  a  moment,  he  looked  curiously 
at  her  face,  small  and  white,  dazed  by  the  calamity 
of  their  quarrel;  and,  in  a  return  to  rationality,  he 
understood  that  it  was  no  stranger,  but  his  own  wife, 
whom  he  was  harrying.  His  immediate  remorse 
drew  poignancy  not  alone  from  her  wild  eyes  and 
tragic  pose,  but  from  every  trivial  appurtenance  to 
that  scene  as  well — her  home-made  dress,  her  rough- 


3oo  PREDESTINED 

ened  finger-tips,  the  garish  parlor  ornaments,  her 
treasures,  epitomizing  all  too  pathetically  the  limita- 
tions of  her  nature,  her  past,  and  her  indubitable 
destiny.  He  heard  her  voice  wailing,  "  Whenever  I 
love  you  most,  whenever  I  give  myself  to  you  utterly, 
then  I'm  about  to  suffer  the  worst.  Last  night  I 
loved  you  insanely,  more  than  God;  and  I  think 
He's  punishing  me  for  it  now." 

"Emma,  Emma,  let  me  hear  you  say  that  you  for- 
give me." 

"  Oh,  I  must ;   for  I  have  only  you ! " 

Kind  words  and  kisses  were,  in  fact,  so  potent  an 
anodyne  for  her  despair  that,  after  such  episodes, 
she  could  fall  asleep  with  phrases  of  endearment,  ren- 
dered half  incoherent  by  drowsiness,  lingering  on  her 
lips. 

In  the  morning,  he  woke  to  see,  in  the  gloom  of  the 
bedroom,  her  thick  braids  of  black  hair  spread  upon 
the  pillow,  her  eyelids  nearly  lost  in  shadows,  and  all 
her  maturity  smoothed  out  by  sleep  or  softened  by 
the  dusk.  Then,  at  his  prolonged  scrutiny,  her  eyes 
opened;  and  her  first,  vague  impulse  was  to  detain 
him. 

In  the  evening,  after  dinner,  they  sat  by  the  win- 
dow, looking  out  on  Second  Avenue.  Winter  had 
reached  the  city:  in  the  small,  oblong  yards  of  board- 
ing-houses  across  the  street,  some  trees  thrust  forth 
bare  limbs,  etiolated  by  the  pale  lavender  glimmer  of 
an  arc  lamp.  Their  shadows  covered  the  brown- 
stone  walls  with  a  semblance  of  great,  intersecting 
fissures.  Occasionally,  on  the  illuminated  window- 


EMMA  301 

shades,  there  moved  prefigurations  monstrous  and 
indefinite. 

After  the  middle  of  December,  one  could  glimpse, 
beyond  the  corner  of  Fourteenth  Street,  many  per- 
sons moving  to  and  fro  before  bright  shop-windows. 

In  Christmas  week,  Felix  remembered  that  his 
credit  was  still  unimpaired  in  a  jewelry  shop  on  Fifth 
Avenue.  There  he  selected,  and  had  charged  to  his 
account,  a  gold  bracelet  set  with  small  turquoises. 
But  when,  on  Christmas  morning,  he  slipped  this 
trinket  upon  Emma's  wrist,  she,  with  an  excited 
laugh,  produced  a  diamond  finger-ring  worth  at 
least  two  hundred  dollars.  She  had  spent  on  this 
gift  a  fourth  of  her  remaining  patrimony. 

Covering  his  frowns  with  her  hands,  she  explained, 
anxiously : 

"I  wanted  so  much  to  get  you  a  fur-lined  overcoat, 
but  I  was  afraid  you  wouldn't  care  for  anything  but 
sable." 

All  the  tastes  that  she  ascribed  to  him  were  of  the 
most  "aristocratic"  sort.  Though  he  had  grown  too 
cautious  intentionally  to  acquaint  this  jealous  creat- 
ure with  many  details  of  his  past,  she  was  convinced 
that  Felix,  ain  sowing  his  wild  oats,"  had  squandered 
a  rich  inheritance.  That  was  the  reason  why  he  now 
avoided  all  the  fashionable  and  brilliant  friends  he 
must  have  had?  So  much  the  better  for  her! 

At  their  Christmas  dinner,  holly  decked  the  table, 
cider  brimmed  the  goblets,  jellies  trembled  in  bowls, 
nuts,  raisins,  and  candies  ran  over  on  the  cloth,  and 
the  turkey,  flanked  by  tall  clumps  of  celery,  with  a 


302  PREDESTINED 

small  American  flag  stuck  in  its  "wishbone,"  was,  as 
Emma  said,  "a  whopper."  While  they  were  dining, 
sleet  lashed  the  panes,  and  the  wind  moaned  in  the 
air-shaft.  Emma  shivered  with  delight. 

"Just  you  and  I,  safe  inside!  Do  you  remember, 
it  was  on  a  Christmas  eve  we  met?" 

He  was  thinking  of  that  night,  but,  at  the  same  time, 
of  another  woman,  green-eyed,  with  auburn  hair. 

Ah,  the  laughter  and  the  lights,  the  odors  of  per- 
fumes and  champagne,  the  roses  not  so  ruddy  as  the 
lips  above  them,  the  glances  that  united  in  an  imma- 
terial embrace!  He  fell  to  wondering  whom  she 
was  deluding,  this  Christmas  night. 

Chance  brought  him,  soon  afterward,  a  partial 
satisfaction  of  that  curiosity. 

He  had  begun  to  patronize  a  saloon  conveniently 
situated  on  Fourteenth  Street,  near  Third  Avenue. 
Midway  of  a  row  of  catchpenny  arcades,  pawn-shops, 
and  ten-cent  concert-halls,  two  show-windows — dis- 
playing against  wooden  screens  some  dusty  "mag- 
nums"— shut  in  a  swinging  door  with  cut-glass 
panels.  Inside,  sawdust  covered  the  floor.  To  the 
left,  from  front  to  rear  of  a  long  room,  extended  the 
bar,  backed  by  mirrors  against  which  pyramids  of 
glasses  rose  just  high  enough  to  prevent  an  inebriated 
patron  from  glimpsing  his  reflection.  To  the  right, 
were  aligned  a  cashier's  desk,  a  cigar-stand,  and  a 
buffet,  the  last  covered  with  dishes  of  salt  herring, 
pickles,  sliced  Italian  sausage,  pretzels,  and  other 
generators  of  thirst.  From  the  ceiling  hung  down 
at  intervals  chandeliers  wrapped  round  with  tin-foil; 


EMMA  303 

and  on  the  walls  were  lithographs  portraying  race- 
horses and  pugilists.  At  the  back,  a  partition  con- 
cealed a  small,  unventilated  retreat,  reached  from 
the  pavement  by  a  narrow  corridor,  where  feminine 
customers  were  served. 

Felix  was  at  first  ashamed  of  himself  whenever  he 
entered  there.  In  time,  however,  he  got  over  such 
fastidiousness. 

One  afternoon,  the  cut-glass  panels  swung  inward 
with  a  crash;  two  unprepossessing  figures  were  seen 
struggling  on  the  threshold;  and  a  short  fellow,  half 
out  of  his  overcoat,  plunged  headlong  into  the 
saloon.  Rising  from  the  sawdust,  he  swayed  for- 
ward against  the  bar,  at  the  same  time  shouting 
thickly  over  his  shoulder: 

"I'll  have  all  I  want  whenever  I  want  it,  and  don't 
you  never  take  it  on  yourself  to  interfere  with  my 
amusements,  Mr.  Mackeron!" 

Felix  turned  to  the  individual  thus  addressed.  It 
was  the  tenor  of  "The  Lost  Venus." 

This  young  actor,  formerly  the  admiration  of 
"matinee  girls,"  had  grown  sallow  and  emaciated. 
Moreover,  the  physiognomy  that,  on  the  stage  of  the 
Trocadero  Theatre,  had  expressed  many  evanescent 
emotions,  was  now  almost  vacuous,  while  the  man's 
pupils,  even  in  the  reduced  light  of  the  saloon,  re- 
mained at  pin-point  size. 

Mackeron  had  no  sooner  shaken  hands  with  Felix 
than  he  began  eagerly  to  relate  his  troubles. 

On  account  of  his  cigarette-smoking,  his  singing 
voice  had  temporarily  "gone  back  on  him."  Mont- 


304  PREDESTINED 

morrissy  had  refused  him  work,  and  "a  conspiracy 
of  all  the  prominent  theatrical  managers  in  New 
York"  had  kept  him  off  the  boards.  Of  late,  he 
had  been  employed  in  a  moving-picture  manufactory 
where,  before  a  kinetoscopic  camera,  he  took  part 
in  short,  serio-comic  pantomimes.  But  the  proprie- 
tor of  this  establishment — "a  pitiful  ass" — had 
declared  that  Mackeron,  "an  artist  noted  through- 
out the  country  for  the  mobility  of  his  mask,"  could 
no  longer  inject  into  his  face  a  sufficient  evidence 
of  feeling.  "I  tell  you,  Piers,  the  whole  profession 
hates  me  for  my  successes,  and  is  out  to  down  me. 
One  man  can't  fight  them  all.  What  I  shall  do, 
heaven  only  knows.  Do  you  happen  to  have  five 
dollars  to  spare  till  early  to-morrow  morning?" 

"I'm  sorry,  no." 

Mackeron's  pin-point  eyes  grew  duller. 

"No  offence  taken,"  he  muttered,  his  glance  run- 
ning over  Felix's  clothes.  And,  after  a  moment's 
hesitation : 

"I  suppose  you  know  about  Marie  Sinjon's  new 
part?" 

Felix  set  down  his  highball.  To  hear,  after  so 
long  a  silence,  that  well-remembered  name,  made 
his  heart  beat  fast. 

Montmorrissy  had  provided  her  with  a  new  ex- 
travaganza called  "Poor  Pierrette,"  of  which  an 
elaborate  production  was  soon  going  to  have  its 
first-night  at  the  Trocadero  Theatre. 

So  she  was  in  town! 

"Yes,  and  Noon  too,  by  George,  better  off  than 
ever!" 


EMMA  305 

Felix  wondered  whether  he  ought  not  to  take 
umbrage  at  that  speech.  But  the  other  continued : 

"You  remember  Noon's  nervous  trouble — the  way 
he  used  to  twitch  his  head?  Not  so  long  ago,  I 
watched  him  through — I  saw  him  in  a  restaurant, 
dining,  and  at  first  I  thought  he  wasn't  going  to  be 
able  to  feed  himself!" 

Felix  closed  his  eyes,  the  better  to  enjoy  this  pict- 
ure. Then,  to  prevent  himself  from  smiling,  he 
inquired,  hastily: 

"And  Nora  Llanelly?" 

"There  was  a  decent  sort  of  girl!  I  don't  know. 
She's  vanished." 

Further  conversation  was  prevented  by  the  saloon- 
keeper, who  demanded  that  Mackeron  remove  "his 
friend."  They  turned  to  look  at  the  short  drunkard 
in  the  sawdust-covered  overcoat,  who,  clinging  to 
the  bar,  was  weeping  because  he  had  been  refused 
more  whiskey.  In  his  broad  face,  splotched  across 
the  nose  from  alcoholic  poisoning,  his  large  lugu- 
brious mouth,  his  dyed  "mutton-chop"  whiskers 
and  mustache,  his  inflamed,  vacant  eyes  running 
over  with  tears,  Felix  discovered  something  half 
familiar.  Was  not  this  the  ex-drummer  of  the  orches- 
tra at  the  Trocadero  Theatre  ?  Mackeron  assented. 

"No  friend  of  mine,  you  understand.  But  his 
wife's  a  good  soul,  and  home  to  her  he's  going!" 

So  the  actor  dragged  the  musician  forth  into  the 
street. 

The  saloonkeeper's  comment  was: 

"There's  the  sort  that  gives  this  business  a  bad 


306  PREDESTINED 

He  was  a  middle-aged  Irishman,  the  speaker,  seri- 
ous-looking, sandy-haired,  smooth-shaven,  display- 
ing over  his  left  cheek-bone  a  deep  cicatrice,  where 
an  unruly  customer  had  once  struck  him  with  "brass 
knuckles."  In  his  boyhood,  a  barefoot  immigrant 
from  "the  old  country"  dumped  into  the  slums,  he 
had  quickly  learned  to  endure  all  privations,  to 
return  blows,  to  run  from  policemen,  to  avoid  liquor, 
and  to  doff  his  cap  to  priests.  Ward  politicians  had 
soon  found  in  him,  at  election  time,  a  youth  at  once 
shrewd,  devoted,  and  eager  for  profitable  combat 
at  the  polls.  From  the  captaincy  of  voters  he  had 
worked  his  way,  through  various  kindred  offices,  to 
a  position  of  influence  in  Tammany  Hall,  the  head- 
quarters of  the  Democratic  political  machine  in  New 
York.  Now,  at  forty-nine,  he  was  the  proprietor  of 
many  ballots  in  his  district,  the  owner  of  a  lucra- 
tive business  which  he  considered  no  less  reputable 
than  any  merchant's,  a  widower  with  two  small 
children,  a  total  abstainer,  and  an  occasional  wor- 
shipper at  mass.  His  chief  desire  was  to  rear  his 
daughters  in  "good  style";  and  he  had  casually 
inquired  of  Felix,  to  whom  he  made  himself  agree- 
able, "if  they'd  be  apt  to  think  much  of  pedigrees 
in  them  young  ladies'  finishing  schools  uptown?" 
All  the  same,  Mr.  Quilty's  remote  ancestors  had,  it 
seemed,  "worn  crowns  in  Ireland." 

Despite  this,  he  thought  nothing  of  taking  off  his 
coat,  when  trade  was  brisk,  and  serving  drinks  across 
the  bar. 

Then  the  lights  of  the  foil-wrapped  chandeliers 


EMMA  307 

struck  through  a  blue  zone  of  tobacco  smoke  upon 
a  phalanx  of  tilted  derby  hats.  The  customers, 
crowded  one  against  another,  with  difficulty  accom- 
plished the  large  gestures  called  for  by  their  un- 
natural exuberance;  but,  on  the  other  hand,  their 
proximity  made  easier  those  unpremeditated  confi- 
dences, those  secret  promises  of  favor,  those  touching 
avowals  of  regard,  which  signalize  such  moments. 
On  all  sides,  mouths  opened  to  emit  unbridled 
laughter,  or  snapped  shut  in  counterfeit  decision; 
eyes  winked  and  looked  unutterable  wisdom;  faces 
were  wreathed  in  rapturous  grins,  contracted  inor- 
dinately with  cunning,  relaxed  in  doleful  reverie. 
Late  at  night,  some  imbibed,  apparently,  elixirs  of 
transfiguring  properties:  old  men  grew  young  in 
mien  and  impulse,  young  men  decrepit  in  attitude 
and  spirit,  while  the  timid  turned  fierce,  and  the 
turbulent  propitiable. 

In  these  scenes,  Felix  now  regularly  took  his  place. 

Presently,  it  was  as  if,  from  rubbing  against  so 
many  shabby  costumes,  an  indefinite  suggestion  of 
shabbiness  had  been  transferred  to  him.  One  day, 
he  realized  that  cab-drivers,  as  he  passed  them  on 
the  street,  no  longer  solicited  his  patronage. 

He  could  not  spare  the  money  to  renew  his  cloth- 
ing, which,  after  long  service,  seemed  suddenly 
impaired  at  every  point.  Indeed,  Johnny  Livy, 
whose  Bohemian  habiliments  had  once  made  his 
company  in  Broadway  restaurants  a  questionable 
satisfaction,  was  now  generally  as  well-dressed  as 
Felix.  The  latter  did  not  hesitate  to  ask  the  "star 


3o8  PREDESTINED 

reporter"  for  loans,  or  to  approach,  on  the  same 
business,  friends  in  the  newspaper  office  whom  he 
caught  wearing  optimistic  smiles.  At  last,  on  seeing 
such  expressions  fade  away  the  moment  he  grew 
confidential,  Felix  plucked  up  courage,  marched  into 
the  editorial  cubbyhole,  and  demanded  an  increase 
of  salary.  The  editor  regretted  to  inform  him  that 
his  work,  instead  of  gaining  value,  had  depreciated. 

"With  us,  you  see,  efficiency  is  what  counts — 
never  sentimental  inclination,  though  sometimes  we 
would  like  to  make  that  do  so.  But  here,  unfortu- 
nately, we  are  all  parts  of  a  machine.  When  a  part 
fails " 

The  journalist  gazed  into  space,  slowly  shook  his 
fragile-looking  head,  and  turned  to  his  desk.  Felix 
went  home  with  a  heavy  heart. 

The  money  that  he  gave  Emma  every  Saturday 
for  housekeeping  expenses  represented  for  him  just 
so  many  cigars  and  highballs  missed;  as  the  week 
drew  to  a  close,  and  his  empty  pockets  necessitated 
abstinence,  he  could  not  help  blaming  her  for  his 
consequent  discomfort.  At  such  times,  a  sullen  ani- 
mosity invaded  him.  The  dinners  which  she  had 
racked  her  brain  to  make  at  once  tempting  and  inex- 
pensive, he  ate  with  lowered  brow,  in  silence;  while 
she  was  trying  to  interest  him  in  cheerful  topics,  he 
was  pondering  schemes  for  the  replenishment  of  his 
wallet.  "What  a  pity  that  all  his  jewelry  was  in 
pawn!  His  books,  then?  He  could  not  bear  to 
part  with  one  of  them.  Of  his  clothing,  there  was 
not  a  suit  worth  a  decent  price."  Such  was  his 


EMMA  309 

desperation,  that  he  examined  all  the  forks  and 
spoons  for  sterling  marks.  Then,  with  a  start,  he 
recoiled  from  his  intention,  as  much  aghast  as  a 
somnambulist  waking  to  find  himself  on  the  threshold 
of  a  crime. 

Nevertheless,  he  often  appraised  the  diamond 
finger-ring — his  Christmas  present  from  Emma. 
But,  of  course,  she  would  remark  its  absence  from 
his  hand. 

"Just  so:  it  was  she  who  balked  him,  in  some 
way,  at  every  point!" 

And,  when  the  struggle  against  his  craving,  or  the 
desire  to  indulge  it,  had  stretched  his  nerves  to  a 
tension  almost  intolerable,  any  trivial  annoyance 
caused  him  to  turn  on  Emma  in  a  fury.  His  voice 
high  and  unsteady,  he  would  exclaim : 

"Will  you  be  so  good  as  to  stop  that  endless 
humming?  My  God,  I  should  like  a  little  peace, 
now  and  then,  in  my  own  house!" 

The  light  died  in  her  large  eyes;  her  face  seemed 
to  wither;  and  her  pale  lips  barely  formed  the  words: 

"Don't  you  swear  at  me,  Felix!" 

At  such  temerity,  a  red  mist  obscured  his  sight. 

"One  of  these  days  you'll  drive  me  crazy.  Then 
look  out!" 

She  sucked  in  her  lips,  while  her  eyes,  never 
leaving  his,  slowly  overflowed.  And  a  thin  wail 
rang  out: 

"Yes,  strike  me!  It's  nothing  new.  There's  the 
mark  for  you:  the  scar  across  my  nose  that  Lew 
put  there!" 


PREDESTINED 

His  heart,  so  to  speak,  turned  over. 

"Oh,  Emma!  Oh,  my  poor  little  girl!  Never  in 
the  worM,  from  me!" 

"You  say  that  now.  But  you're  getting  more  and 
more  like  him.  It's  a  rep'tition,  yes,  a  dreadful 
rep'tition,  and  this  is  my  life!" 

Still,  when  a  similar  quarrel  had  prostrated  her, 
when  a  physician  had  been  summoned  to  relieve  her 
headache  and  the  palpitations  of  her  heart,  Felix 
had  only  to  kneel  beside  the  bed,  cover  her  cheek 
with  kisses,  and  lay  some  flowers  in  her  languid 
hands. 

"Violets,  from  my  bad  boy!  Ah,  now  I  want  to 
get  well  this  minute,  and  wear  them  somewhere." 

Reconciled,  they  walked  out,  on  frosty  nights, 
over  pavements  slippery  with  ice,  past  ridges  of 
dirty  snow  extending  alongside  the  curbs,  toward 
other  parts  of  town  than  theirs.  Thoroughfares 
vivid  with  the  electric  signs  of  "dime  museums"  and 
saloons  gave  place  to  the  dim  upsweep  of  office 
buildings;  soon  a  vista  with  unobstructed  altitudes 
appeared,  where  sombre  zones  of  interwoven 
branches  hovered  over  stretches  of  unsullied  snow; 
then  blocks  of  fashionable  shops  displayed  monoto- 
nously their  blind  window-panes  and  iron  shutters; 
and,  eventually,  where  unessential  trade  gave  way 
to  its  sustainers,  one  was  surrounded  by  massive 
dwelling-houses  with  gables,  tourelles  and  marble 
vestibules,  their  shadowy  prospect  broken,  maybe, 
at  a  distance,  by  a  church  spire  outlined  with  stars, 
or  by  the  refulgence  of  a  towerlike  hotel  ablaze  from 


EMMA  311 

portico  to  cornices  with  lights.  Closed  automo- 
biles continually  glided  past:  the  twin  lamps  rushed 
forward;  the  rectangular  window  framed  pale 
dresses  and  shirt-bosoms;  the  varnished  panels 
flashed  by;  the  red  tail-light  dwindled  like  a  dying 
coal.  Emma  stared  at  that  flood  of  equipages  bear- 
ing away,  to  unknown  pleasures,  the  people  of  an 
alien  world.  She  wanted  to  halt  before  a  house 
when  some  woman,  cloaked  and  bareheaded,  ran  up 
the  steps,  while  a  footman  in  white  silk  stockings 
held  open  the  door.  Through  the  large  windows 
of  restaurants  she  perceived,  by  the  light  of  candles 
glowing  under  beaded  shades,  bare  arms,  white 
cravats,  orchids,  jewels,  raised  champagne  glasses. 
Then,  all  at  once,  she  confessed  that  she  was  tired. 
They  turned  homeward.  The  mansions  were  left 
behind,  the  shops  ended  at  the  little  park,  the  office 
buildings  gave  place  to  Union  Square  and  Fourteenth 
Street,  Second  Avenue  opened  out,  and  the  fire- 
escapes  of  the  flathouse  came  into  view.  Among 
the  hand-painted  chairs,  they  removed  their  wraps 
in  silence. 

Once  they  went  to  the  Metropolitan  Opera  House, 
where  they  sat  in  the  topmost  gallery,  close  to  the 
gilded  rafters  and  the  large  cupids  of  the  fresco. 
Below,  hung  four  other  galleries,  the  attire  of  their 
occupants  gaining  festive  quality  at  each  descent, 
till,  in  the  two  lowest  tiers,  fitted  out  with  boxes, 
shimmering  decollete  dresses,  decked  with  strands  of 
pearls  or  sewn  with  diamonds,  clung  to  the  narrow 
hips  of  women  smaller,  apparently,  than  mariom- 


3i2  PREDESTINED 

ettes.  The  house  grew  dark.  Before  the  audience, 
in  a  broad  trench  where  screened  electric  globes  shed 
rays  on  many  music-racks,  the  bows  of  violins  lay 
all  aslant,  the  flutes  and  horns  were  raised,  two 
drummers  cautiously  felt  the  membranes  of  their 
kettle-drums.  The  baton  fell;  a  sonorous  harmony 
swept  upward. 

"Venusberg's"  foliage  was  disclosed;  Tann- 
hauser  sat  repining  by  the  couch  of  Venus — she  in  a 
shining  girdle  and  transparent  robes.  To  notes 
vertiginously  passional,  bacchantes  entered;  cries 
burst  forth;  white  limbs  were  tossed  about  in  reck- 
less measures.  But  weariness  seized  upon  the 
dancers:  they  fell  back  into  a  gathering  mist,  and 
disappeared.  Then  the  mellow  voice  of  Venus  stole 
forth,  to  fill  the  auditorium: 

"Geliebter,  sag\  wo  weilt  dein  Sinn?" 

"Where  stray  thy  thoughts?"  To  the  past,  to  a 
time  when,  in  an  artist's  dusky  studio,  those  same 
tones  quivered  on  the  air,  to  youth  tentative  and 
yet  still  uncompromised,  to  an  epoch  of  boundless 
promise,  to  the  clear,  trustful  eyes  of  a  young  girl. 

Emma,  having  consulted  the  programme,  whis- 
pered: 

"That  is  Mme.  Regne  Lodbrok." 

"Yes,  I  ought  to  know.  I  used  to  be  a  friend  of 
hers." 

His  wife  leaned  forward  to  devour  with  her  eyes 
the  radiant  figure  on  the  stage.  She  did  not  smile 
again  that  evening. 

Her  jealousy  returned,  and  in  a  form  so  tern- 


EMMA  313 

pestuous  that  she  could  not  help  disclosing  all  the 
ramifications  of  her  fears.  "What  chance  had 
she" — in  effect — "to  hold  for  long  a  young  man 
who  had  lived  amid  the  allurements  of  a  sumptuous 
environment,  who  had  been  at  home  in  the  boudoirs 
of  famous  singers  and  in  the  dressing-rooms  of 
actresses,  who,  besides,  must  have  left  back  there, 
in  the  region  of  opera-boxes,  closed  automobiles, 
and  ball-rooms,  some  elegant,  cultivated,  beautiful 
young  woman  ?  Indeed,  perhaps  he  had  not  broken 
all  of  those  old  ties  ?  Why  was  it  that  he  disappeared 
for  hours,  to  return  morose  and  quarrelsome,  without 
excuses  for  his  absence  ?  Was  she  to  discover,  some 
day,  that  even  in  faithlessness  he  resembled  Lew?" 

In  the  morning,  she  consulted  a  paper-covered, 
dog-eared  volume  entitled,  "Napoleon's  Dream- 
Book"  ;  at  night,  she  "told  her  fortune"  with  a  pack 
of  playing-cards.  As  she  laid  upon  the  marble- 
topped  table  card  after  card,  Emma  muttered, 
"Trouble  in  the  house,  disagreeable  feelings,  an 
absence,  a  light  woman  between  him  and  me." 
She  looked  at  Felix  strangely.  , 

"No  matter  how  I  shuffle  the  deck,  there's  always 
a  light  woman  between  him  and  me!" 

When,  by  pretence  of  the  most  tender  sympathy, 
she  had  inveigled  him  into  relating  anecdotes  of 
his  more  prosperous  years,  suddenly  her  dark  eyes 
struck  fire,  and  she  cried: 

"How  carefully  you  avoid  the  love-affairs!  That 
shows  me  all  the  plainer:  if  you  had  finished  with 
them,  you  wouldn't  be  so  wary.  But  I  don't  need 


314  PREDESTINED 

your  confessions;  I'm  sure  without  them!  Dont 
I  feel  it  here,  in  my  breast — an  awful  sinking,  that 
comes  on  sometimes  when  you're  out,  and  I'm  alone  ? 
Ah,  don't  think  a  woman  can't  tell!" 

"My  dear  Emma,  this  is  perfectly  absurd." 

Baffled  by  his  smile,  she  glared  at  him.  Then 
approaching  her  face  to  his,  gritting  her  teeth,  and 
rapidly  shaking  her  head, 

"Felix,  I  could  kill  you!" 

To  hide  his  uneasiness,  he  snatched  up  hat  and 
overcoat. 

"I'll  walk  about  in  the  open  till  you  come  to  your 
senses." 

She  screamed  after  him: 

"Yes,  leave  your  wife!  That's  all  us  wives  are 
for!" 

And  she  collapsed  into  a  chair,  with  eyeballs  fixed, 
and  twitching  hands.  The  deuce!  One  could  not 
leave  his  wife  in  that  predicament ! 

He  helped  her  to  bed.  There  she  lay  motionless, 
groaning.  "She  was  choking,  her  brain  felt  queer, 
her  heart  was  running  away."  Then  her  teeth 
commenced  to  chatter.  Felix  brought  whiskey,  which 
she  pushed  aside;  he  wrapped  her  in  blankets;  he 
ran  to  a  neighboring  apothecary's  for  a  headache 
remedy.  She  swallowed  one  powder,  and  fell  asleep. 

He  slipped  out  with  his  dog,  into  the  cold.  "What 
a  life!  How  long  would  it  continue  so?  Till 
death?"  He  stopped  in  the  street,  struck  his  palms 
together,  and  ejaculated,  "It  can't  go  on!  I  was 
not  born  for  this.  Presently,  I  shall  awake." 


EMMA  315 

Pedestrians  halted,  some  distance  off,  to  watch  him. 
Felix  entered  a  saloon. 

Now  and  then,  when  his  hand  touched  the  swing- 
ing doors,  he  hesitated,  drew  back,  escaped.  From 
victories  no  greater,  he  derived  extravagant  hopes. 

But  still  there  came  to  him  at  every  contempla- 
tion of  gayety  the  same  longing,  at  every  sight  of 
physical  beauty  the  ineradicable  trepidation,  at 
every  approach  to  centres  of  prodigality  and  license 
the  thought,  "Alas,  I  am  missing  that!"  The 
ghosts  of  old  temptations  returned  to  haunt  him; 
and  one,  in  the  twilight  of  a  February  day,  took 
corporeal  shape. 

On  a  residential  street,  a  slender  woman,  wearing 
a  long  coat  of  black,  smooth  fur  and  a  black  "Rus- 
sian toque,"  drew  near  to  Felix.  They  were  on  the 
point  of  passing  each  other  without  recognition. 
But  the  bull-terrier  was  fawning  round  her  skirts. 

"Eileen!" 

"You!" 

And  they  both  trembled. 

The  rim  of  her  black  fur  toque  pressed  down  on 
all  sides  the  precise  undulations  of  her  coiffure; 
from  the  full  lobes  of  her  ears  jet  pendants  dangled; 
a  frill  of  white  lace  clung  round  her  chin.  That 
unobtrusive  exquisiteness  of  dress,  that  clear  pallor 
and  facial  delicacy  of  the  "hot-house  type"  of 
beauty,  that  very  subtle  hint  of  secret  ardors,  in 
Eileen  Tamborlayne  remained  unimpaired.  Even 
the  familiar  composure  almost  instantly  flowed 
back  into  her  face:  she  cast  a  glance  up  and  down 


316  PREDESTINED 

the  dusky  street;  her  eyes  cleared  of  apprehension; 
her  lips  parted  in  a  mournful  smile. 

"My  poor  Felix,  to  think  we  should  have  this 
painful  meeting!" 

Her  speech,  and  her  quick  recovery  of  equanimity, 
mortified  the  young  man.  With  a  bitter  laugh,  he 
returned : 

"Painful,  I  take  it,  because  of  the  catastrophe  that 
it  recalls?" 

Giving  him  a  reproachful  look,  she  started  to  walk 
on,  though  in  such  a  way  that  he  committed  no 
obtrusion  by  keeping  pace  with  her.  He  controlled 
his  agitation.  He  tried  to  speak  indifferently. 

"Is  it  odd  that  I  should  feel  some  curiosity?  For 
three  years  I've  been  in  ignorance  of  your  where- 
abouts and  fortunes.  That  seems  a  long  time,  per- 
haps? And  yet,  I'm  still  interested  in  what  I  was 
partially  to  blame  for."  He  hesitated,  then  blurted 
out: 

"Gregory?" 

"He's  fairly  well.  Travelling  seems  to  suit  him 
best.  We  seldom  get  back  to  New  York,  these 
days." 

"You  and  he  are  together!" 

She  made  no  immediate  reply.  At  length,  with  a 
sigh,  she  allowed  the  enigmatic  phrase  to  escape  her: 

"Sometimes  qualities  that  irk  us  serve  us  best  in 
the  end." 

When  he  had  considered  this  carefully,  Felix  vent- 
ured: 

"Does  he  ever  speak  of  me?" 


EMMA  317 

"Ah,  my  dear,  that's  different!" 

He  understood  everything.  She,  in  some  in- 
genious way,  had  avoided  practically  all  the  conse- 
quences; he,  while  scarcely  so  guilty,  was  blamed 
by  Gregory  Tamborlayne  for  everything.  He 
sneered: 

"In  our  case,  the  usual  retributions  seem  to  have 
been  reversed.  I'm  the  one,  apparently,  who  has 
lost  everything  of  importance." 

She  looked  at  him  askance. 

"Have  you  been  so  unfortunate?" 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"I  hadn't  your  talents.  You  see,  I  was  an  ama- 
teur." 

Eileen  stood  still.  Her  eyes  became  humid,  her 
lips  parted,  and  her  face  expressed  perfectly  the 
resignation  of  a  meek  woman  misunderstood.  She 
faltered : 

"We  had  best  part  here." 

Besides,  a  lamp-lighter  was  illuminating  the  street ; 
and  two  strangers  were  approaching.  She  made 
haste  with  her  farewell. 

"You  think  harshly  of  me.  You  ascribe  nothing 
to  fatality,  to  your  unconsciously  exerted  influence 
on  others,  to  your  own  impulses.  You  don't  remem- 
ber tenderly,  as  I  often  do,  a  season  of  delicious 
terrors,  of  sweet  miseries.  You  forget  that  we 
loved  each  other." 

Her  chin  rose;  a  well-known,  tremulous  smile 
appeared ;  she  seemed  to  be  swaying  toward  him.  A 
tremor  passed  through  his  body.  He  seized  her  hand. 


318  PREDESTINED 

"I  remember  it  all!"  he  uttered,  in  choked  accents. 

Intense  satisfaction  shone  in  her  eyes. 

"I  want  you  never  to  forget  it!  Be  careful: 
people  are  coming;  our  moment  is  over.  But  we 
cheated  fate  of  one  more  thrill,  didn't  we?" 

Without  lowering  his  hand,  Felix  watched  her 
depart.  And  not  till  she  had  disappeared  did  he 
remember  his  humiliating  discoveries  concerning 
her,  or  realize  that  Eileen,  moved  by  the  dominant 
impulse  of  her  nature,  had  again  played  upon  his 
sensibility.  He  was  forced  to  confess: 

"I  don't  seem  able  to  hold  my  own  in  any  situ- 
ation." 

It  was  on  the  following  day  that  these  words  were 
more  unhappily  verified. 

The  last  edition  of  The  Evening  Sphere  had  gone 
to  press,  when  the  editor  called  Felix  into  the  pri- 
vate office.  "It  was  not  a  prosperous  year;  the 
proprietor  of  the  newspaper  had  ordered  a  general 
retrenchment;  a  number  of  employe's  would  have 
to  be  laid  off  for  the  time  being."  In  short,  after 
much  circumlocution,  Felix  was  told  that  his  ser- 
vices were  no  longer  needed.  "But,  my  dear  fellow, 
you  must  be  sure  to  leave  me  your  address.  I  have 
great  hopes  of  sending  for  you,  when  we  feel 
wealthier,  and  you  have  refreshed  yourself  with  a 
vacation."  The  editor  smiled  gently.  "You  must 
begin  soon  to  live  up  to  my  expectations  of  you," 
was  his  valedictory. 

The  flat  was  redolent  of  hot  lard.  In  the  kitchen, 
Emma,  wearing  her  checkered  apron,  was  cooking 


EMMA  319 

dinner.     She  regarded  Felix  with  astonishment  and 
pleasure. 

"Home  so  early?" 
"I've  lost  my  job." 
She  displayed  a  frightened  smile 
"That's  not  a  pretty  joke,  sweetheart." 
"It's  the  truth.     I've  been  discharged." 
Emma  turned  to  the  gas  stove,  with  quivering 
chin.    He  wondered  why  his  news  affected  her  so 
deeply.    From  her  accounts,  this  was  not  by  any 
means  the  first  time  she  had  heard  those  words. 


CHAPTER  XV 

THE  day  after  his  dismissal  from  The  Evening 
Sphere,  Felix  remembered  that  he  had  never  yet 
derived  material  benefit  from  the  good-will  of  Paul 
Pavin.  Forthwith,  he  hastened  to  the  Velasquez 
Building.  In  the  lobby,  a  clerk  informed  him: 

"Monsieur  Pavin  has  his  old  studio  for  the 
winter;  but  just  now  he  is  on  a  visit  in  West- 
chester  County.  However,  he  is  expected  back  with- 
in the  week." 

"I'll  call  again." 

But  it  seemed  an  age  before  Felix  parted  the 
velveteen  curtains,  saw  a  burly  pair  of  shoulders  rise 
against  the  fading  "north  light,"  and  felt  his  arms 
grasped  by  two  strong  hands. 

"Rascal!    I  have  been  in  your  city  seven  weeks." 

Felix  began  apologies  which  Pavin  cut  short. 

"No,  I  am  wrong.  We  oldish  fellows  sometimes 
ask  too  much.  In  all  ways,  my  faith!  Yes,  on  a 
gray  day  we  discover  that  age  must  bait  its  hook." 
And  he  turned  on  the  lights  before  Felix  had  re- 
covered from  his  blushes. 

They  sat  down  for  an  "old-fashioned  talk,"  which 
proved  to  be  a  gay  monologue  by  the  Frenchman 
concerning  adventures,  in  Corfu,  Brittany,  and  Nor- 
way, that  could  hardly  have  befallen  a  decrepit 

320 


EMMA  321 

man.  But  when  Felix  refilled  his  glass  with  whiskey 
and  soda,  Pavin's  mind  seemed  to  wander.  At  last, 
he  said,  abruptly: 

"My  friend,  you  are  not  looking  well.  Have  you 
been  ill?" 

Felix  ceased  to  smile.     His  answer  was: 

"Bad  luck  seems  to  have  been  my  principal  ail- 
ment!" 

The  artist  smoothed  his  thick,  blond  beard  re- 
flectively. 

"No  fatal  malady,  that,  for  youth.  I  say  it  who 
know.  Mine  was,  for  a  while,  an  open-air  hospital : 
trees  overhead,  iron  chairs  for  beds,  a  light  diet  of 
bread,  with  cheese  on  feast-days,  and  much  walking 
in  thin-soled  shoes  as  part  of  the  discipline.  My 
best  tonic  was  observance  of  the  cured." 

"Your  disease  had  no  complications." 

"And  you  think  that  in  consequence  I  have  no 
ability  to  prescribe  for  your  especial  case.  But  why 
does  a  physician,  who  flounders  through  all  sorts  of 
storms  without  mishap,  say  to  some  one,  'I  warn 
you  to  keep  your  feet  dry'?  Because,  while  not 
susceptible  to  colds  himself,  he  knows  that  for  cer- 
tain others  there  is  only  one  way  to  avoid  a  danger- 
ous illness.  A  man  must  shun  the  elements  that 
don't  agree  with  him." 

"Exactly.  That's  the  plan  of  this  world.  All  the 
immunity  for  one,  and  all  the  susceptibility  for  an- 
other! And  again,  after  every  act  that  is  not  formal, 
the  same  unfairness  in  assignment  of  emotions.  For 
you,  doubtless,  impenitence;  but  for  me,  remorse." 


322  PREDESTINED 

There,  according  to  Pavin,  Felix  had  discredited 
his  own  grievance.  Life — as  the  Frenchman  saw  it — 
was  made  up  of  the  happiness  and  the  unhappiness 
that  followed  different  sorts  of  conduct.  The  result 
depended  on  the  degree  to  which  the  individual's 
higher  senses  had  been  developed.  An  undeveloped 
nature  would  not  suffer  from  the  worst  acts  any 
great  contrition;  but  a  nature  with  fine  moral  judg- 
ment would  get,  at  each  divergence  from  its  ideal  of 
conduct,  an  unhappy  reaction.  "I  for  my  part," 
Pavin  confessed,  "have  lived  without  many  scruples 
and,  consequently,  with  few  unhappy  reactions.  In 
that  speech,  however,  I  admit  a  deficiency,  a  coarse- 
ness of  spiritual  fibre,  a  lack  of  what  you  have.  I 
possess  the  'quality'  necessary  for  good  painting, 
but  you  own  a  finer  quality — the  capacity  for  deli- 
cate remorse.  A  cerebral  man  is  tormented  with 
countless  scruples  incomprehensible  to  the  peasant. 
Thus,  with  his  very  pains,  he  buys  access  to  rare 
fields  of  consciousness,  in  the  far  reaches  of  which 
move  the  mystics,  the  delineators  of  subtle  agonies, 
those  who  have  gained  their  'victories  over  the  in- 
visible.' You  have  read  a  book  by  one  of  these. 
But  as  for  him,  between  his  remorses  and  his  will, 
the  latter  was  the  more  delicate." 

Then,  looking  at  Felix  with  half -shut  eyes,  he 
concluded,  in  the  tone  of  one  surprised  by  a  chance 
thought : 

"We  must  make  your  resemblance  to  him  end 
short  of  that." 

Felix  took  this  opportunity  to  relate  how  Buron's 


EMMA  323 

book  had  changed  his  literary  designs,  how  its  perusal 
had  been  followed  by  the  most  exalted  aspirations, 
how,  for  his  resultant  labors,  he  had  slighted  daily 
tasks,  to  the  depletion  of  his  funds,  and  the  refusal 
of  his  further  journalistic  services.  "Then,  close  ap- 
plication to  work  had  impaired  his  health;  next,  while 
suffering  from  nervous  instability,  he  had  even  been 
drawn  into  an  unfortunate  marriage ;  finally,  his  ac- 
cumulated troubles  had  bound  him  to  a  habit  such  as 
one  did  not  easily  escape."  In  fact,  one  might  have 
thought  that  all  Felix's  woes  had  begun  with  Pavin's 
gift  of  a  volume  of  French  prose.  But,  during  this 
plaint,  the  portrait-painter  seemed  almost  inattentive. 

"I  have  bored  you  with  my  troubles,"  said  Felix, 
stifHy. 

"No,  I  heard  everything  you  said,  and  with  great 
regret,  though  all  the  time  I  was  thinking  of  Buron. 
Do  you  know,  a  curious  thing  has  happened,  in  that 
connection."  And  he  explained  that  Mme.  Lod- 
brok  had  seen  recently,  on  Broadway,  an  ex-dancer, 
half  French  and  half  Algerian,  once  the  talk  of 
Paris,  but  now  grown  ugly,  fat,  and  shabby,  who, 
many  years  before,  had  disappeared  with  Pierre 
Buron.  This  woman,  while  the  opera-singer's  cab 
was  turning  round,  had  vanished  in  the  crowd. 
"What  a  pity,"  Pavin  commented.  "Perhaps  she 
could  have  furnished  some  illuminating  reminis- 
cences— of  his  death,  or  the  location  of  his  grave?" 

Felix  made  no  reply,  being  more  concerned  with 
the  thought  that  his  elaborate  preliminaries  to  a 
request  for  money  had  been  wasted. 


324  PREDESTINED 

But  this  was  not  the  case.  When  the  young  man 
rose  to  go,  Pavin  pressed  into  his  hand  a  roll  of 
banknotes,  with  the  speech: 

"You  need  two  remedies  for  your  bad  luck:  one, 
a  temporary  loan — if  you  will  permit  me — the  other, 
a  journey  with  a  friend.  In  two  weeks,  I  am  off 
for  Havre.  Come  and  see  me  to-morrow;  we  will 
conspire  against  all  obstacles.  Mind  the  tall  box 
in  the  vestibule." 

There  was,  indeed,  wedged  behind  the  door,  a 
flat  wooden  case  some  six  feet  high,  with  express 
labels  pasted  on  it.  Felix,  uttering  an  unsteady 
laugh,  inquired: 

"A  fresh  masterpiece  for  the  Luxembourg  Gal- 
lery?" 

"Unfortunately,  no.  A  portrait  I  have  been 
doing  in  the  country." 

Round  the  turn  of  the  corridor,  he  snatched  from 
his  pocket  the  roll  of  banknotes.  It  amounted  to  a 
hundred  and  fifteen  dollars.  He  went  downtown 
as  if  walking  on  air. 

Besides,  Pavin's  last  words  kept  ringing  in  his 
ears.  "A  journey!" 

An  escape!  Another  land!  The  beginning  of  a 
new  life!  It  had  come,  then,  at  last — the  golden 
opportunity.  And,  without  troubling  himself  about 
the  details  of  that  transition,  he  was  whirled  away 
into  the  jewelled  haze  of  Paris  boulevards  at  night- 
fall, into  the  districts  of  cafes  made  famous  by  their 
patrons,  where  celebrities  of  all  sorts  congregated 
on  plush-covered  settees  with  their  backs  against  a 


EMMA  325 

wainscoting  of  mirrors,  into  the  region  of  studios 
where,  when  the  "working  light"  was  gone,  geniuses, 
of  whom  posterity  was  destined  to  be  proud,  fore- 
gathered to  display  their  nimble  wit,  their  cynicism, 
their  exceptional  fervors.  Then  the  sphere  of  Con- 
tinental drawing-rooms  opened  to  his  gaze:  he 
recognized  his  youthfulness,  believed  again  in  his 
charm  and  talents,  saw  himself  ultimately  made 
free,  through  his  accomplishments,  of  the  society 
of  elegant  "  blue-stockings,"  statesmen,  diplomatists, 
and  princesses.  A  cloud  of  unknown  faces  gathered 
on  the  margins  of  his  dreams.  He  perceived,  as  it 
were,  marble  stairways  lined  with  bowing  servants, 
expanses  of  glistening  parquetry  over  which  rose- 
colored  dresses  floated,  wide  doorways  filled  with 
palms  that  masked  musicians,  conservatories  where 
beautiful  women,  additionally  distinguished  by  their 
love-affairs  with  the  illustrious,  leaned  toward  him 
amid  masses  of  exotic  flowers.  Or  else,  he  glimpsed 
lagoons  in  moonlight  and  a  gondola  gliding  past  the 
steps  of  an  old  palace,  carved  balconies  hanging 
over  an  enchanted  sea,  a  villa  blushing,  in  sunset, 
amid  trees  that  rose  against  an  amber-colored  sky, 
to  burst,  high  overhead,  into  autumnal  opulence,  as 
does  the  foliage  in  a  design  by  Fragonard.  Those 
were  all  scenes  of  plenty,  love,  and  fame,  of  unprec- 
edented adventures,  of  intermingling  exaltations 
and  languors,  replete  with  the  delights  that  fortune 
may  secure  for  the  character  at  once  voluptuous  and 
intellectual.  And  why  should  those  visions  not 
assume  material  shapes?  Did  not  the  whole  world, 


326  PREDESTINED 

after  all,  lie  stretched  out  before  youth  made  aware 
of  its  potentialities? 

Still,  Emma's  face  seemed  to  float  constantly 
before  him.  He  was  enraged  by  the  persistence  of 
that  apparition;  and,  as  he  had  reached  Fourteenth 
Street,  to  drown  his  scruples  he  entered  Quilty's 
saloon. 

But  the  floor  covered  with  sawdust,  the  foil- 
wrapped  chandeliers,  the  bar  slopped  over  with 
beer,  roused  his  disgust.  He  wondered  how  he 
could  have  spent  so  many  hours  in  such  a  place. 

Nevertheless,  he  remained  at  the  bar,  drinking 
highballs,  grumbling  to  himself  at  the  quality  of  the 
whiskey,  condescending,  finally,  with  an  inscrutable 
smile,  to  answer  Quilty  and  an  habitue  of  the  resort, 
named  Pandle — a  rather  obtrusively  attired,  dried-up, 
pessimistic-looking  fellow  apparently  of  unlimited 
leisure,  who  wore  an  auburn  wig,  and,  since  he 
was  totally  bereft  of  hair,  affected  two  streaks  of 
brown  cosmetic  in  imitation  of  eyebrows.  "What 
associates!"  thought  Felix.  "What  a  den!"  From 
that  environment  he  could  not,  in  contemplation, 
extricate  the  flat,  or  even  Emma.  All  would  have 
to  be  left  behind. 

"As  for  her,  did  she  expect  to  fasten  herself  for 
life  to  a  man  of  his  endowments?  If  he  gave  her 
the  slip,  she  would  not  be  a  whit  worse  off  than 
when  he  met  her.  It  was  the  destiny  of  some  to 
suffer  in  whatever  situations  they  contrived.  And 
did  not  the  conqueror  invariably  have  to  drive  his 
chariot  to  victory  over  prostrate  bodies?" 


EMMA  327 

On  his  way  home,  however,  he  modified  his  arro- 
gance. Dissimulation  was  imperative. 

Emma,  who  had  been  pressing  her  cheek  against 
the  window-pane,  came  forward  with  haggard  eyes. 

"Your  dinner's  spoiled  hours  ago.  Where  have 
you  been?" 

"Collecting  an  old  debt,"  he  answered,  and  threw 
fifty  dollars  upon  the  table.  When  she  embraced 
him,  her  face  radiant  with  relief  and  thankfulness, 
Felix  grew  sick  at  heart.  Could  he  do  this 
deed? 

Notwithstanding  such  thoughts,  next  day  he  went 
back  to  the  Velasquez  Building.  "Monsieur  Pavin 
was  out." 

"Ah!" 

He  had  given  vent  to  an  ejaculation  of  relief.  It 
was  a  reaction. 

And  a  new  struggle  began. 

He  haunted  the  flat,  followed  Emma  from  one 
room  to  another,  watched  her  at  household  tasks- 
striving  to  stamp  upon  his  mind,  so  that  he  might 
not  for  one  moment  forget,  the  picture  of  her  docile 
servitude.  Sometimes,  remaining  perfectly  still,  he 
tried  to  imagine  the  place  as  it  would  be  without  him. 
Empty  rooms,  a  vacant  chair,  the  lonely  bed,  silence. 
But  could  he  not  hear,  in  imagination,  her  sobs,  and 
the  footfalls  of  furniture-movers?  Her  gaze  rose  to 
meet  his;  a  look  of  wonder  and  inquiry  trembled  in 
her  face;  his  eyes  fell.  He  had  the  sensation  of  a 
man  who,  as  his  intended  victim  unexpectedly  turns 
round,  conceals  a  knife  behind  his  back. 


328  PREDESTINED 

It  occurred  to  him  that  if  he  could  feel  a  modicum 
of  passion  for  her,  his  designs  would  never  be  accom- 
plished. So  he  urged  himself  to  unprecedented 
exhibitions  of  tenderness:  he  made  love  to  her, 
talked  nonsense,  kissed  her  eyelids,  chin,  and  blue- 
black  hair.  In  his  anxiety  to  reproduce  old  ardors, 
he  imitated  all  the  blandishments  that  he  had 
lavished  on  the  others.  He  cried  aloud,  "I  love 
you!"  his  heart  crying,  meanwhile,  "If  only  I  could 
be  content  to  do  so!"  For  when  his  lips  met  hers, 
he  dreamed  of  princesses;  and  when  he  closed  his 
eyes,  he  pondered  "all  that  might  be,"  but  for  his 
conscience.  He  felt  at  the  same  time  resentment 
toward  Emma  and  an  intense  desire  to  be  satisfied 
with  her.  He  wished  that  he  might  be  able  willingly 
to  sacrifice  himself  for  her,  and  that  she  might  then 
somehow  set  him  free. 

To  this  sentimental  pretence  of  Felix's  she  made 
immediate  response.  Her  large  eyes  once  more 
grew  lambent,  her  doting  smiles  returned,  she  re- 
gained her  girlish  airs.  "It  was  like  old  times,"  or 
else,  "He  had  never  been  so  nice."  When  he  was 
going  out,  she  clung  round  his  neck,  or  lured  him 
back  for  another  kiss.  She  could  not  let  him  leave 
her  for  an  hour  without  participation  in  the  most 
tender  scene.  On  other  occasions,  her  eyes  chang- 
ing color  in  an  instant,  her  amorous  whispers  ending 
in  a  catch,  she  barred  his  exit  till  he  had  sworn  to 
his  most  trifling  intention.  He  was  going,  usually, 
"to  negotiate  with  certain  publishers  about  a  pros- 
pective book." 


EMMA  329 

After  he  had  left  the  house,  her  words  lingered  in 
his  ears,  her  dilated  eyes  seemed  still  to  shine  before 
him,  and  passing  women  who  bore  a  vague  resem- 
blance to  her  intruded  on  each  guilty  thought  of 
his. 

Every  day,  he  went  half-way  to  Pavin's  studio, 
halted,  and  turned  back.  And  it  was  as  if  he  were 
relinquishing,  in  that  retreat,  a  kingdom  full  of 
treasure. 

He  came  to  the  conclusion  that  before  he  could 
find  a  plausible  excuse  for  leaving  her,  she  would 
have  to  be  drawn  into  a  violent  quarrel.  "Insults 
cannot  be  forgotten;  contempt  in  one  will  counter- 
act pity  in  the  other;  the  irrevocable  phrase,  let 
slip  in  anger,  may  prove  to  be  the  passport  to 
liberty."  But  his  attempts  in  that  respect  were  all 
rendered  half-hearted  by  his  self-reproach.  Besides, 
who  could  push  an  altercation  with  a  woman  dis- 
solved in  tears? 

Fool  that  he  had  been,  to  forget  her  transforma- 
tion in  jealousy!  He  had  only  to  blurt  out  an 
allusion  to  some  imaginary  woman,  create  a  false 
impression,  excite  Emma  till  she  threatened  him 
ferociously,  or,  still  better,  attacked  him.  In  the 
letter  left  behind  him,  this  sentence  would  appear, 
"From  what  has  just  occurred,  you,  too,  can  measure 
not  only  the  unhappiness,  but  also  the  danger,  of 
our  companionship." 

Thirteen  days  had  passed  since  Pavin's  proposal, 
when  Felix,  ready  for  anything,  appeared  again  at 
the  Velasquez  Building. 


330 


PREDESTINED 


"Monsieur  Pavin?  Why,  sir,  he  sailed  yesterday 
for  Europe." 

Gone,  before  the  appointed  day,  without  a  word! 

The  mirage  vanished;  the  desert  stretched  to  the 
horizon  its  monotonous  and  barren  undulations. 

He  settled  down  to  write  short  stories  "such  as 
magazine  editors  want."  Humbly  he  rummaged 
current  periodicals  for  models.  On  some  of  those 
pages,  Miss  Nuncheon  displayed  her  theories  about 
"the  smart  set,"  and  in  every  number  of  The  Mauve 
Monthly  Mr.  Lute  voiced  no  less  glibly  in  sonnets 
than  in  quatrains  some  enigmatical  and  pallid  yearn- 
ings. Felix,  for  all  his  sneers,  could  not  string 
together  half  a  dozen  satisfactory  paragraphs. 

He  went  downtown  to  hunt  a  job  among  the 
newspaper  offices.  The  first  refusal  disheartened 
him.  As  he  was  leaving  that  vicinity,  Johnny  Livy 
passed,  whistling,  almost  stout  in  a  new  plaid  ulster. 

Felix  finished  Pavin's  loan,  and  sold  his  old  pawn- 
tickets.  Emma  was  using  her  patrimony.  Bill- 
collectors  called  daily. 

Every  night,  he  stayed  late  at  Quilty's  bar.  Fre- 
quently, in  the  morning  he  had  no  recollection  of 
coming  home.  On  rising,  he  was  good  for  nothing 
till  he  had  swallowed  a  drink  of  brandy. 

It  was  his  "one  refuge,"  that  state  of  inebriety, 
in  which  all  his  regrets  and  anxieties  melted  quite 
away;  in  which  a  conviction  of  absolute  well-being 
came  to  him ;  in  which,  as  he  advanced  to  an  oblitera- 
tion of  all  objective  consciousness,  veil  after  veil  was 
lifted  from  his  subjective  mind,  until,  like  a  mystic 


EMMA  331 

seemingly  on  the  verge  of  discovering  the  undiscover- 
able,  he  was  stirred,  so  to  speak,  by  revelations, 
vaguely  splendid,  concerning  a  government  whose 
province  was  the  illimitable  field  of  stars.  His 
soul,  taking  flight,  reached  spaces  where  the  mun- 
dane and  temporal  was  lost  in  the  celestial  and 
eternal,  where  the  human  sojourn  became  trivial, 
where  the  air  trembled  with  a  harmony  of  promises 
to  be  fulfilled  in  perpetuity.  It  was,  indeed,  at 
such  moments  that  his  spirit,  escaping  from  the 
flesh,  soared  to  its  only  presumption  of  a  God. 
But  at  his  every  return  to  sobriety  the  sense  of  truth 
departed  from  those  phantasms,  the  veils  descended, 
as  if  his  ethereal  part,  having  mingled  with  infinitude, 
had  to  be  deprived  of  its  discoveries  at  re-entry  into 
the  body.  Moreover,  there  were  no  terms  whereby 
he  could  have  described  intelligibly  his  fragmentary 
reminiscences. 

Yet  he  now  found  those  periods  the  only  desir- 
able ones  in  life.  Without  any  more  self-condemna- 
tion, he  clung  to  his  habit,  because  indulgence  of  it 
made  him  oblivious  to  its  consequences. 

His  constant  intemperance,  his  relapse — since 
Pavin's  departure — into  his  former  sullenness,  his 
failure  to  renew  by  any  remunerative  deed  Emma's 
faith  in  him,  evidently  forced  his  wife,  at  last,  to  the 
conclusion  that  the  future  held  more  clouds  than 
sunshine.  She  no  longer  had  the  courage  to  talk  of 
celebrity  and  wealth  to  come.  Her  attitudes  of 
adoration  ceased  before  the  reiterated  spectacle  of  a 
man  made  unsteady  and  fatuous  by  drink.  And,  in 


332  PREDESTINED 

her  apprehensions,  every  day  expressed  with  greater 
freedom  were  mixed  up  reproaches  about  "poverty," 
bald  comparisons  of  Felix's  debauchery  to  Lew's, 
dire  predictions,  wails  of  self-pity,  and  accusations 
that  he  was  deliberately  going  downhill  "because  he 
and  some  girl  uptown  had  fallen  out." 

Nightly  he  had  to  hear  her,  in  a  voice  monoto- 
nously shrill,  rehearse  her  wrongs.  The  list  of  his 
offences  was  apparently  limitless:  he  wondered, 
occasionally,  if  she  kept  a  memorandum-book  in 
which  to  note  the  most  trifling  reprehensible  act  of 
his.  Even  Pat,  who  crept  to  his  master's  side  while 
these  diatribes  were  in  progress,  drooped  his  head 
and  yawned.  When  she  had  finished,  Felix  was  apt 
to  say: 

"After  all,  your  precious  Lew  was  a  sensible 
man,  who  knew  what  he  was  about." 

Once,  she  retorted: 

"No  doubt  you'd  like  to  be  rid  of  me,  too!  Or 
even  see  me  die!" 

He  made  no  response.  But  he  sent  at  her,  from 
beneath  his  lowered  eyelids,  a  furtive  look  of  hatred. 

Emma,  though  apparently  engaged  in  dusting  the 
bisque  statuette  of  an  infant,  was  watching  Felix  in 
the  mirror  above  the  mantel-shelf.  She  planted 
herself  before  him,  with  arms  akimbo. 

"You'll  never  get  off  so  easy!" 

But,  unexpectedly,  a  look  of  hopelessness  ap- 
peared upon  her  face.  Her  eyes  rolled  in  their 
sockets.  Her  mouth  was  slowly  distorted,  as  are 
children's  mouths  just  before  a  fit  of  grief.  She  left 


EMMA  333 

the  room,  and  threw  herself  face-downward  upon 
the  bed.  Her  lamentations  filled  the  house.  Fi- 
nally, she  was  prostrated,  without  sufficient  strength 
to  reach  for  the  headache  powders  in  the  bureau 
drawer. 

One  evening,  Felix  was  leaving  the  flathouse  when 
a  mail-carrier,  in  his  gray  uniform  and  with  his  bag 
of  tan  sole-leather  slung  over  one  shoulder,  slipped 
into  the  metal  letter-box  an  envelope  of  unusual  ap- 
pearance. It  was  from  France — from  Paul  Pavin. 
A  sneer  curled  the  young  man's  lip;  he  thrust  the 
missive  unopened  into  his  pocket. 

"So  he  recalled  the  fact  that  there  was  a  little 
something  to  explain?" 

When,  in  Quilty's  saloon,  he  had  fortified  himself 
with  a  drink  of  whiskey,  Felix  tore  open  the  en- 
velope. The  words  caught  his  eye: 

"I  first  wrote  to  you  in  care  of  The  Evening 
Sphere.  Then,  as  there  was  no  time  to  lose,  I  tele- 
phoned to  the  editor  for  your  address.  I  sent  a 
note,  by  special  delivery,  to  your  house,  and,  at 
the  last  moment,  another,  by  messenger.  Both 
were  evidently  accepted.  .  .  ." 

It  was  Emma  who  had  intercepted  them!  Then 
she  knew  everything?  But  that  was  impossible. 
All  the  same,  there  was  no  other  explanation.  His 
hands  shook  so  violently  that  the  note-paper  rattled. 

"This  fills  my  score  against  her!" 

And  he  prepared  for  his  arraignment  of  her  by 
getting  thoroughly  drunk.  Toward  nine  o'clock, 
he  forgot  that  he  had  a  wife. 


334  PREDESTINED 

Presently,  he  became  aware  that  some  one  was 
talking  to  him.  Directly  before  his  face,  an  incom- 
plete countenance  was  resolved  out  of  a  mist:  he 
recognized  Quilty  by  the  scar  across  his  cheek-bone. 

"A  lady  in  the  back  room  wants  a  word  with  you." 

"A  lady?" 

With  a  vacant  laugh,  Felix  entered  the  compart- 
ment at  the  rear  of  the  saloon. 

Some  women,  of  a  foreign  appearance,  their  hats 
ornamented  with  draggled  plumes,  their  large,  flat 
hand-bags  laid  on  bare  table-tops  among  half-empty 
glasses,  sat  here  and  there  in  the  relaxed  attitudes  of 
tired  pedestrians.  All  were  staring,  with  expres- 
sions of  antagonism,  at  a  tense  figure  posted,  bolt 
upright,  by  the  corridor  door.  It  was  Emma. 

"You!    In  this  place!" 

Without  replying,  her  face  colorless,  her  eyes 
enormous,  her  lips  compressed  as  if  to  keep  in  a 
cry,  she  pounced  upon  him  and  dragged  him,  through 
the  corridor,  into  the  street. 

There,  he  struggled  to  release  himself.  But  she, 
panting,  clung  to  him  with  both  hands. 

"What  are  you  trying  to  do!" 

"You're  coming  home  with  me." 

"I,  after  the  way  you've  just  humiliated  me?" 

"Humiliated  you!    Oh!    Oh!" 

He  jerked  himself  loose,  and  reeled  against  the 
wall.  But  immediately,  she  fastened  on  him  again. 
He  was  as  much  taken  aback  by  her  strength  as  by 
her  courage.  She  seemed  strange  to  him. 

"Will  you  come  home?" 


EMMA  335 

"No!" 

"But  you  will!  You  will,  do  you  hear?  You 
don't  know  me  yet!  I'll  follow  you  everywhere/ 
I'll  cry  out  to  every  one  how  you  treat  me!" 

Under  the  electric  signs,  a  ring  of  faces  swiftly 
took  shape  round  them.  Before  the  saloon  door- 
way appeared  Mr.  Pandle,  jauntily  bewigged,  his 
imitation  eyebrows  raised.  And,  all  the  while, 
Emma's  voice,  pitched  in  a  strident  key,  proclaimed 
that  she  was  Felix's  wife,  upbraided  him  for  his 
neglect  of  her,  paraded  before  the  throng  of  spec- 
tators the  secrets  of  his  life.  In  short,  there  gushed 
from  her  lips  pell-mell,  like  a  torrent  from  a  broken 
dam,  all  her  accumulated  grievances. 

But  she  stopped  short,  and  stared,  aghast,  at  the 
hand  with  which  he  was  distractedly  straightening 
his  cravat. 

"The  diamond  ring!     My  ring!" 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  he  had  pawned  it  that  very 
evening. 

Propelled  by  shame,  he  thrust  the  spectators  aside, 
and  set  out  rapidly  toward  Second  Avenue.  She  ran 
after  him,  again  seized  upon  his  arm,  and,  suiting 
her  steps  to  his  long  strides,  let  him  feel  the  full 
weight  of  her  unavoidable  person.  From  time  to 
time,  she  uttered  an  incoherent  gasp  of  menace. 

The  parlor  of  the  flat  enclosed  him.  His  counter- 
action began: 

"I  might  have  expected  it.  Inborn  vulgarity 
can't  be  concealed  for  long!" 

Wait,  did  he  not  have  a  better  attack  than  that 


336  PREDESTINED 

"up  his  sleeve"?  Ah,  Pavin's  letter!  Snatching 
it  from  his  pocket,  he  shook  it  under  her  nose. 

"Kindly  explain  what  became  of  the  three  mes- 
sages from  my  friend  ?  Thanks  to  this  one,  which 
you  weren't  able  to  intercept,  I  know  everything." 

"Then  you  need  no  explanations." 

"What,"  he  shouted,  "you  confess  to  taking 
them?" 

"And  if  I  did?  I  felt  in  my  bones  that  something 
was  going  on.  Then  those  letters,  written  in  French 
—so  much  caution!  Oh,  a  woman  can  tell!  Why, 
they  seemed  to  burn  my  ringers!  Yes,  I  kept  them! 
And  if  they  spoiled  any  of  your  wicked  tricks,  I'm 
doubly  glad!" 

He  experienced,  simultaneously  with  a  hot  thrill 
in  the  solar  plexus,  the  necessity  of  destroying 
something.  He  was  on  the  point  of  springing  at 
her,  when  the  bisque  infant,  crawling  on  the  mantel- 
shelf, attracted  his  attention.  He  whirled  the  orna- 
ment above  his  head,  then  dashed  it  into  a  thousand 
pieces  at  her  feet. 

A  scream  reverberated.  She  precipitated  herself 
upon  the  fragments  of  that  symbol. 

"Oh,  you  devil!    I  hate  you!    I  hate  you!" 

"That  is  what  I  have  been  waiting  to  hear  you 
say,"  he  answered.  And,  with  his  dog,  he  went  out, 
expecting  never  to  return. 

Thanks  to  the  diamond  ring,  he  had  more  than  a 
hundred  dollars  in  his  pocket.  At  Union  Square, 
he  threw  himself  into  a  public  automobile,  with  the 
command,  "Drive  up  Broadway."  Soon  the  glitter 


EMMA  337 

ing  fronts  of  theatres  and  night  restaurants  were 
streaming  past  him. 

With  Pat  at  his  heels,  he  entered  cafes  decorated 
in  gilt  and  scarlet,  where  marble  columns  ended  in 
Corinthian  capitals,  and,  behind  expanses  of  ma- 
hogany, were  displayed  mural  decorations  of  his- 
toric and  allegorical  import.  The  round  tables 
with  carved  legs,  the  waiters  in  their  long  aprons, 
the  men  in  evening  dress  who  crowded  through  the 
doorways  during  the  intermissions  of  theatrical 
performances  going  on  near  by,  were,  for  Felix,  like 
fragments  in  a  vision  of  the  past.  He  wondered  if  he 
was  going  to  be  confronted  by  Noon.  But  after  he 
had  made  the  rounds  of  half  a  dozen  cafes,  he  gave 
up  trying  to  distinguish  the  faces  of  his  neighbors. 

An  incessant  restlessness  urged  him  from  one  spot 
to  another.  No  sooner  had  he  comprehended  a 
group  of  strangers  admiring  the  bull-terrier,  than 
he  was  elsewhere,  conversing  with  a  bartender  who, 
to  his  extreme  self-complacency,  remembered  his 
name.  "But  I  must  go."  "Without  finishing  your 
drink?"  "That's  so!"'  He  gulped  down  his  high- 
ball with  the  air  of  one  who  has  committed  an 
almost  unpardonable  offence. 

What  was  this  place?  A  gloomy  side  street,  a 
baroque  facade,  a  familiar  doorway.  It  was  the 
stage  entrance  of  the  Trocadero  Theatre. 

Inside,  the  doorkeeper,  before  darkening  the  vesti- 
bule, was  taking  a  last  look  at  his  features  in  a 
cracked  mirror.  He  turned  round.  The  protuber- 
ance on  his  nose  had  grown  to  the  size  of  a  walnut. 


338  PREDESTINED 

"Well,  what  do  you  want!" 

"Miss  Sinjon?"  Felix  inquired,  mechanically. 

"She  left  here  half  an  hour  ago." 

He  had  a  spasm  of  alarm.  Where  was  she?  He 
hailed  a  hansom  cab:  then,  with  his  foot  on  the 
cab  step,  he  paused. 

"Why,  for  the  moment  time  had  turned  back,  on 
its  course,  a  year  and  more!" 

He  stumbled  off  toward  Broadway,  pursued  by 
the  sarcasms  of  the  cab-driver. 

And  the  lights,  enlarged,  melting  together,  form- 
ing on  all  sides  an  uninterrupted  radiance,  engulfed 
him,  like  a  shining  sea.  He  was  borne  hither  and 
thither  by  chance  contacts.  Doors  yawned  before 
him:  he  drifted  into  places  where  electric  globes 
rotated  overhead,  and  the  floors  seemed  furnished 
with  inequalities.  He  rested  his  elbows  on  tables 
that  he  did  not  see,  gazed  at  the  necks  of  champagne 
bottles,  received  on  his  back  the  slaps  of  invisible 
persons,  and  in  his  ears  the  monotonous  assurance 
that  he  was  "a  good  fellow."  Strains  of  music  stole 
upon  his  senses;  he  burst  into  tears.  He  had  an 
altercation  with  a  man  concerning  the  bull-terrier; 
when  he  tried  to  catch  his  opponent  by  the  throat, 
a  score  of  intermediaries  suddenly  swarmed  round 
him.  On  a  lonely  street  corner,  he  discovered  that 
he  had  lost  his  overcoat.  He  walked  straight  ahead, 
but  the  same  buildings  appeared  to  follow  him  every- 
where. Their  foundations  were  shadowy,  their  up- 
per stories  were  gray.  It  was  the  dawn. 

Late  that   afternoon,   an  excruciating  headache 


EMMA  339 

roused  Felix  from  a  troubled  sleep.  He  was  lying, 
fully  dressed,  on  the  counterpane  in  a  wretched 
hotel  bedroom.  Pat,  perched  on  the  edge  of  a 
washstand,  was  whining  at  the  dry  faucets. 

Felix,  however,  knew  better  than  to  slake  his  own 
thirst  with  water.  Dragging  himself  to  the  tele- 
phone, he  ordered  brandy,  and  victuals  for  the  dog. 
On  paying  the  waiter,  he  found  that  he  had  three 
dollars  left. 

But  nausea  seized  him.  He  lay  down  quickly, 
and  strove  to  collect  his  thoughts.  What  had  hap- 
pened ? 

At  full  recollection  of  the  previous  night's  events, 
remorse  completed  his  distress.  He  shrank  back 
as  if  from  the  tacit  condemnation  of  a  multitude  of 
unseen  witnesses. 

What  if  her  despair  had  resulted  in  a  dangerous 
illness?  What  if  she  had  done  herself  some  harm? 
Such  thoughts  brought  him  to  his  feet. 

While  trying  to  arrange  his  clothes,  he  was  forced 
to  pause,  from  time  to  time,  with  both  hands  on 
the  bedpost,  until  his  qualms  had  passed.  His 
linen  was  soiled,  his  trousers  were  wrinkled,  his 
shoes  were  covered  with  mud;  but  he  had  to  go 
out  thus  disordered,  unshaven,  with  drawn  and 
yellowish  visage. 

It  was  already  evening.  Flurries  of  snow  ap- 
peared above  a  confusion  of  glistening  umbrellas. 

The  pavement,  wet  and  black,  seemed  so  nearly 
liquid  that  he  hesitated  to  set  one  foot  before  the 
other.  He  kept  close  to  the  walls  for  fear  that 


340  PREDESTINED 

passing  trolley-cars  "might  run  up  on  the  sidewalk." 
He  took  fright  midway  of  street  crossings,  dodged 
at  a  sound  of  hoofs,  and,  with  perspiration  "rolling 
down  his  cheeks,  wished  at  the  same  instant  to  run 
forward  and  to  lie  down.  He  got  into  a  cab,  but 
the  jolting  of  that  vehicle  over  car  tracks  was  intol- 
erable. He  pressed  on  afoot.  The  street  lights 
danced  before  him;  and  the  roofs  of  tall  buildings, 
indistinct  above  a  whirl  of  snowflakes,  seemed  to  be 
gradually  toppling  forward. 

At  Union  Square,  he  hesitated.  What  was  he 
going  to  find  at  home?  When  he  proceeded,  it  was 
by  a  devious  way,  so  that  he  might  avoid  as  long 
as  possible  a  fulfillment  of  his  premonitions. 

Finally,  he  traversed  Thirteenth  Street.  Between 
Third  and  Second  Avenues,  where  some  shabby- 
genteel  lodging-houses  displayed,  behind  the  falling 
snow,  their  crumbling  stonework  and  cast-iron  bal- 
conies made  frail  by  rust,  two  women  were  con- 
versing on  a  doorstep.  One  was  a  bareheaded,  un- 
symmetrical  creature  arrayed  in  a  wrapper,  with  an 
aureole  of  dishevelled  hair.  The  other  was  Miss 
Qewan. 

Felix,  in  the  attitude  of  a  malefactor  threatened  with 
detection,  slipped  past  the  ex-chorus  girl  unseen. 

Second  Avenue  opened  out  before  him.  Yes,  the 
flathouse  stood  there  still,  unchanged  in  any  part. 
Almost  reassured,  he  crossed  the  street. 

At  the  head  of  the  staircase,  a  white-robed  figure 
was  awaiting  him.  Emma  stretched  out  her  hands. 
He  caught  her  to  his  breast. 


EMMA  341 

"Oh,  you've  come  back!" 

And,  for  that  magnanimity,  she  forgave  him  every- 
thing. 

In  the  parlor,  she  sank  into  a  chair:  he  knelt 
beside  her.  They  gazed  at  each  other  with  the 
blank  looks  of  persons  who  have  passed  through  a 
prolonged  mutual  agony.  He  observed  all  the 
ravages  of  grief  in  her  white  face.  In  a  night,  she 
had  aged  ten  years. 

Clad  in  a  dressing-sack  and  a  petticoat,  she  had 
remained,  since  dawn,  at  the  front  windows. 

"And  you,  too,  have  been  punished,"  she  faltered, 
passing  her  fingers  timidly  through  his  hair.  "But 
I?  Oh,  how  cruel  you  were!  How  you've  made 
me  suffer!"  Letting  her  head  fall  back,  staring, 
wide-eyed  and  open-mouthed,  at  the  ceiling,  she 
recalled  that  suffering  of  hers — she  described,  with 
painful  exactitude,  her  every  pang. 

Sobs  issued  from  his  throat. 

"May  I  be  struck  dead  if  I  ever  speak  an  unkind 
word  to  you  again!  A  new  life  begins  for  us  to- 
night. Will  you  believe  that,  Emma?" 

"Yes,  yes;  I'll  try  to  believe  you  now." 

But,  of  a  sudden,  she  grew  faint,  and  pressed 
her  palms  against  her  brow.  "Her  headache  was 
more  than  she  could  bear." 

"Have  you  taken  anything  for  it?" 

"It  did  no  good.  But  get  me  a  powder,  any- 
way." 

He  put  her  to  bed.  Lying  on  her  back,  she 
moved  her  head  from  side  to  side.  When  a  half 


342  PREDESTINED 

hour  had  elapsed,  she  asked,  in  querulous,  thin 
tones,  for  another  headache  powder.  This  she 
took,  and,  presently,  was  still.  Felix,  stretched 
beside  her,  fell  asleep. 

He  was  awakened  by  the  clink  of  a  glass  tumbler. 

"Emma?" 

"I  can't  stand  this  pain." 

"You  mustn't  take  so  much  of  that  stuff.  It's  a 
dangerous  depressant." 

"I  know." 

Again  he  drifted  into  slumber. 

But  some  one  was  calling  him  from  a  great  dis- 
tance. He  sat  up  in  bed,  just  as  the  clock  struck 
two. 

"Felix!    Felix!" 

It  was  Emma's  voice,  hardly  audible. 

He  sprang  up,  lighted  the  gas,  and  bent  over  her. 
Her  head  was  thrown  back;  her  face  and  mouth 
had  a  bluish  tinge;  her  skin  was  glazed  with  moist- 
ure. From  between  her  parted  lips  came  short, 
quick  gasps. 

"I  feel  so  queer,  so  weak — my  heart- 
Felix  groped  her  pulse,  which  was  small,  soft, 
and  nearly  imperceptible.  Her  eyes — the  pupils 
extraordinarily  dilated — rolling  very  slowly  toward 
him,  denoted  terror. 

"Do  something!    Help  me!" 

He  ran  into  the  dining-room,  returned  with  a 
bottle  of  brandy,  held  half  a  glassful  to  her  lips. 
But  the  liquor  ran  down  her  chin,  as  she  turned 
away  her  face,  moaning,  "Not  that!" 


EMMA  343 

He  rushed  into  the  public  hallway,  shouted,  got  no 
response.  He  dashed  to  a  front  window.  The  cold 
air  blew  into  the  parlor. 

Second  Avenue  was  white  with  snow;  the  atmos- 
phere, however,  was  clear;  and  a  pale  lavender 
diffusion  from  the  arc  lamps  on  their  tall  metal 
poles  was  more  serene  and  pure  than  moonlight. 
A  man  in  a  thin  jacket  was  standing  on  the  oppo- 
site corner. 

"Get  me  a  doctor,  quick!" 

The  fellow  looked  up,  hesitated,  then  set  off,  at 
full  speed,  toward  Fourteenth  Street.  Felix  re- 
turned to  Emma. 

The  bluish  hue  had  deepened  in  her  face ;  her  lips 
were  violet-colored;  the  eyes,  never  before  so  large 
and  black-looking,  stared  straight  upward.  Every 
moment,  her  head  left  the  pillow,  and  her  mouth,  at 
the  same  time  reaching  out  for  air,  imitated  the 
spasmodic  respiratory  efforts  of  a  fish  drawn  from 
its  element. 

Through  the  crack  below  the  tilted  mirror  of  the 
bureau,  Lew  watched  this  struggle. 

Felix  gathered  her  into  his  arms.  So  much  to  ask 
pardon  for,  so  much  to  expiate,  and  no  words  pro- 
ducible except  the  hoarse  protest: 

"No!    No!    No!" 

A  look  of  recognition  flickered  into  her  eyes. 
With  difficulty  she  achieved  the  speech: 

"I've  been  a  good  wife — the  sisters — a  priest : 

She  tried  to  gain  back  the  breath  that  she  had  lost. 
She  grew  limp;  the  pupils  disappeared  beneath  her 


344  PREDESTINED 

lashes;  after  each  gasp  her  mouth  remained  the 
longer  open.  But  the  almost  inapprehensible  utter- 
ance stole  forth: 

"You'll  go  back,  now"     .     . 

Later,  in  a  murmur  so  tenuous  that  it  seemed 
less  like  a  vocal  expression  than  a  thought  intui- 
tively understood: 

"You'll  be  famous.  .  .  .  You'll  love  other 
women"  .... 

Her  mouth  did  not  close  again.  He  touched  her 
wrist,  and  could  not  feel  a  pulse. 

And  he  was  invaded  by  a  vast  incredulity. 

Two  days  after,  on  the  thirtieth  of  March,  she 
was  buried  in  a  Brooklyn  cemetery.  The  last  of  her 
patrimony  paid  for  a  plot  of  ground — of  minimum 
size — for  the  undertaker's  services,  and  for  the 
mass,  that  she  would  have  desired,  in  a  Roman 
Catholic  church  near  by. 

From  the  church  door,  the  hearse  was  followed 
by  one  carriage,  containing  Felix  and  Pat.  At  the 
cemetery  gate,  the  undertaker  got  down  nimbly 
from  beside  the  driver  of  the  hearse,  and,  with 
three  assistants  all  in  suits  of  rusty  black,  bore  the 
coffin,  covered  with  white  roses,  its  six  silver-plated 
handles  flashing,  to  the  grave.  There,  it  was  en- 
closed in  a  pine  box,  and  lowered,  by  means  of  ropes, 
into  the  pit.  Two  rough-looking  fellows,  armed 
with  spades,  turned  sheepishly  to  Felix. 

His  lips  trembled;   he  designated  the  undertaker. 

"Go  to  work,  boys,"  that  functionary  ordered, 
softly,  with  an  apologetic  cough. 


EMMA  345 

A  rhythmic  rattling  began.  The  grave  was  filled 
with  earth. 

Felix  walked  back  heavily  amid  mounds  and 
tombstones.  In  the  distance,  men  and  women 
were  moving  slowly,  sometimes  stooping,  with  a 
lingering  gesture,  to  lay  a  blossom  on  a  grave,  some- 
times standing,  in  lax  attitudes  of  melancholy  con- 
templation, before  a  sculptured  monument.  The 
ground,  covered  with  last  year's  grass,  bore  patches 
of  melting  snow.  Here  and  there,  appeared  wreaths 
and  memorial  devices,  shrivelled  and  sodden,  the 
rusty  wires  of  their  frameworks  protruding  through 
discolored  rubbish.  Brilliant  sunlight  shone  on  this 
deterioration  and  decay  of  things  which  had  been 
fresh,  blooming,  and  alive. 

The  same  sunlight,  penetrating  the  flat  in  Second 
Avenue,  glinted  on  the  backs  of  the  hand-painted 
chairs,  on  the  dozen  photographs  of  Emma  in  her 
finery  of  other  days,  on  the  foot  of  the  brass  bed- 
stead. 

There  Felix  stood  motionless,  listening.  But  no 
sound  reached  him  from  the  kitchen. 

He  fell  upon  his  knees. 

"Oh,  Pat,  that  poor  little  thing!  That  poor  little 
thing!" 


PART    FOUR 

NINA 


CHAPTER  XVI 

ANXIOUS  to  escape  at  once  from  that  environment* 
he  sent  for  an  auctioneer,  who  asked : 

"Do  you  want  a  public  sale?" 

Felix  recoiled  from  the  thought  of  strangers 
tramping  through  her  home.  The  auctioneer,  ac- 
cordingly, explored  the  rooms,  appraised  each  arti- 
cle, and,  after  letting  fall  some  words  about  "hard 
times"  and  "the  scarcity  of  cash,"  offered  the  young 
man  seventy-five  dollars  down  for  everything.  Felix 
made  a  gesture  of  resignation.  The  other,  looking 
surprised  and  discomfited,  went  off  for  his  porters. 

They  stripped  the  flat.  The  bare  aspect  of  the 
parlor  recalled  to  Felix  the  day  when  he  and  she 
had  come  house-hunting.  Just  so  others  would 
come  now.  It  seemed  to  him  that  the  little,  garish 
room  ought  to  express,  somehow,  in  perpetuity,  the 
tragedy  it  had  enclosed.  And  yet,  the  next  tenants 
would  never  see,  as  he  did  whenever  he  turned 
round,  a  chimera  dissolving  in  the  shadows. 

Now  it  took  shape  beyond  a  succession  of  open 
doors,  in  the  kitchen;  again,  from  the  kitchen  he 
saw  it  float  before  a  parlor  window.  Lacking  out- 
line and  substance,  vaguer  than  any  apparition  of 
conventional  report,  less  like  a  wraith,  indeed,  than 
a  mere  fall  of  shade  at  the  passage  of  a  cloud  before 

349 


350  PREDESTINED 

the  sun,  it  was,  for  Felix,  indefinitely  suggestive  of 
her  person — as  if  one  had  there  some  unfathomable 
analogy  to  the  echo,  lingering  after  the  voice  has 
died  away.  But  when,  taking  his  departure  in  the 
twilight,  he  laid  hand  upon  the  door-knob,  did  she 
not  stand  there,  barring  his  exit  in  a  well-remembered 
pose,  her  large  eyes  peering  up  at  him,  as  who 
should  say,  in  apprehension,  "Where  to?" 

The  snow  had  melted  from  the  streets;  the  breeze 
was  temperate:  Spring  seemed  to  have  drawn  near 
under  cover  of  recent  storms,  now,  with  her  immi- 
nence, to  surprise  the  city  weary  of  its  winter.  Soon, 
in  the  parks,  the  trees  would  weave  their  pale  green 
webs  above  the  tulip  beds,  bright  song-birds  would 
sail  down  adventuring,  and  the  fragrance  of  mag- 
nolia and  hawthorn  blooms  would  cause  the  eyes  of 
lovers  to  turn  wistfully  toward  incompletely  foliated 
bowers.  Felix  recalled  a  speech  of  Emma's,  "When 
spring  comes,  I  want  to  fly  away,  to  some  place  far 
off,  where  I  have  never  been." 

Returning  to  the  cemetery,  he  saw  the  marble 
headstone  set  in  place,  and  strewed  fresh  blossoms 
on  the  grave.  But,  despite  his  previous  materialistic 
theories,  he  felt  she  was  not  there.  Such  cares  soon 
appeared  as  futile,  as  those  of  a  devotee  who  tends  a 
spot  sanetified  merely  by  tradition,  where  nothing 
has  ever  happened,  or  will  happen.  So,  presently, 
he  found  himself  thinking  of  her  as  translated  to 
some  region  beyond  the  sunset  or  amid  the  stars; 
and  the  offerings  that  he  made  to  her  thereafter  were 
of  contrition  and  belated  tenderness.  He  pored 


NINA  351 

over  the  dozen  photographs  of  Emma,  prim  in  her 
various  provincial-looking  gala  costumes:  and  the 
details  in  each  portrait  which,  once  on  a  time,  had 
amused  him,  at  last  brought  moisture  to  his  eyes. 
He  packed  those  souvenirs  away;  he  could  not  bear 
them  round  him  in  his  new  lodgings. 

Miss  Qewan,  meeting  him  one  day  in  Union 
Square,  had  made  bold  to  recommend  the  boarding- 
house  where  she  was  living.  Situated  on  Thirteenth 
Street,  between  Second  and  Third  Avenues,  it  was 
the  dwelling  where  he  had  seen  her  standing  on  the 
doorstep. 

The  brown-stone  front,  four  stories  high,  was 
scaling  off  in  patches;  the  shutters,  all  askew,  were 
losing  their  green  paint.  Draggled  lace  curtains 
hung  in  the  lower  windows;  and  the  weather  was 
not  yet  warm  enough  for  the  upper  sills  to  lack  their 
rows  of  milk  bottles.  The  front  door,  raised  three 
steps  above  the  pavement,  in  a  small  vestibule,  and 
surmounted  by  a  rickety  iron  balcony,  was  so  nar- 
row as  to  make  one  wonder  how  the  landlady,  loom- 
ing in  the  hallway,  got  out  and  in. 

Mrs.  Snatt  was  a  worried-looking  woman,  clad  in  a 
loose  wrapper,  thin  in  the  face  but  elsewhere  corpu- 
lent, with  a  mop  of  almost  colorless  hair,  and  indis- 
tinct eyes  and  lips.  Formerly  a  theatrical  costumer, 
she  had  married,  "when  old  enough  to  know  better," 
a  musician.  Her  husband  running  through  her 
savings  and  confronting  her  with  the  necessity  of 
bringing  up  some  children,  Mrs.  Snatt  had  opened 
a  house  of  board  and  lodging  for  "the  profession." 


352  PREDESTINED 

Still,  as  she  informed  Felix  in  her  most  elegant 
manner,  on  seeing  him  she  knew  of  no  reason  for 
drawing  the  line  at  the  footlights. 

By  a  "singular  coincidence,"  the  "second  floor 
back"  was  unoccupied.  Felix  contemplated  apa- 
thetically a  square  apartment,  with  a  faded  ingrain 
carpet  considerably  stained  round  the  washstand,  a 
folding-bed  that  imitated  by  day  a  chest  of  drawers, 
a  bureau  with  initials  scratched  on  the  mirror,  and 
some  spring-seated  chairs  from  which  the  padding 
was  nearly  gone.  A  what-not  of  ebony,  originally 
supported  by  three  legs,  leaned  in  a  corner,  and  bore 
on  its  top  shelf  the  tinted  clay  figure  of  a  matador 
who  lacked  a  nose.  The  pallid  walls,  with  some 
vertical,  brownish  streaks  on  them,  were  set  off  by 
two  or  three  oil  paintings  that  Mrs.  Snatt  had  seen, 
with  her  own  eyes,  done  "by  hand,"  in  the  window 
of  a  shop  where  soap  wrappers  were  exchanged  for 
premiums. 

The  apartment  overlooked  the  rear  walls  of 
buildings  fronting  on  Fourteenth  Street.  Below, 
the  yards,  their  board  fences  crumbling  from  the 
top,  displayed  their  kitchen  entries,  garbage  pails, 
and  rubbish  heaps.  In  some,  old  mattresses  lay 
doubled  up  in  puddles ;  the  relics  of  chairs  and  sofas 
were  sinking  to  the  ground,  battered  bird-cages, 
stoves  without  feet,  and  broken  bottles  were  piled 
up  in  masses,  while  here  and  there,  over  the  debris, 
some  fathoms  of  rusty  wire  spread  large,  erratic 
coils  and  angles,  like  the  flamboyant  signature 
of  ruin.  Along  the  fences,  cats,  flat  as  lathes,  their 


NINA  353 

shoulder  bones  accentuated,  paced  with  a  suave  and 
furtive  gait. 

A  bath  adjoined  the  apartment;  and  if  one  de- 
sired only  a  light  breakfast  served  in  the  room, 
the  price  would  be  six  dollars  a  week. 

Felix  shrugged  his  shoulders.  It  would  do  till 
he  "got  upon  his  feet." 

He  removed  the  oil  paintings  and  the  clay  matador, 
unpacked  his  books,  set  his  mother's  photograph 
upon  the  bureau.  He  repented  having  disposed  of 
all  Emma's  furnishings.  His  dissatisfaction  was 
not  reduced  when  he  found  in  the  closet  an  old 
copy  of  The  Open  Air  Magazine.  It  contained  a 
picture  of  "Mr.  Mortimer  Fray's  new  country 
house" — an  excellent  specimen  of  Tudor  archi- 
tecture in  brick,  with  lawns,  some  groups  of  clipped 
box-trees,  a  fish-pond  lined  with  stone,  and,  in  the 
foreground,  a  Russian  wolfhound  couchant  beside 
a  sun-dial. 

But,  to  his  surprise,  he  could  not  conjure  up  his 
old  rage  against  the  man.  Other  humiliations  had 
intervened;  and  animosity  against  a  single  object 
had  given  place  to  a  general  rancor,  because  of  its 
diffusion  at  once  vaguer  and  more  bitter.  He 
wished  nothing,  now,  of  Fray  except  that  the  latter 
should  never  learn  of  this  deterioration. 

It  was  a  house  of  slamming  doors,  of  shrill  out- 
cries, of  shaking  chandeliers,  and  a  monotonous 
booming  of  bass  voices  engaged,  apparently,  in  his- 
trionic declamation.  Strong  odors  of  fried  bacon, 
of  onions,  and  of  cabbage  were  wafted  up  the  nar- 


354  PREDESTINED 

row  staircase;  and  one  could  not  issue  into  the 
corridors  without  smelling  cigarette  smoke  and 
cologne. 

At  night,  he  sometimes  woke  with  a  start,  under 
the  impression  that  the  ceiling  was  coming  down. 
This  rumpus,  he  learned,  was  created  by  some 
acrobats  who  roomed  above  him,  and  whose  artistic 
fervor  drove  them  out  of  bed,  apparently,  from 
time  to  time — perhaps  to  practise  feats  which  had 
occurred  to  them  at  that  moment,  between  waking 
and  sleeping,  when  so  many  seemingly  brilliant 
thoughts  flash  through  the  brain. 

Every  morning,  before  Felix  was  ready  to  arise,  a 
clatter  of  pianos  began  up  and  down  the  block. 
Then  one  heard  "the  latest  popular  airs"  repeated 
a  hundred  times,  the  interminable  scales  of  aspirants 
for  concert  honors,  the  shout  of  hopeful  barytones, 
and  the  guffaw  that  punctuated  the  low  comedian's 
song.  It  became  a  competition,  that  uproar.  Felix, 
with  an  oath,  got  up  and  rang  the  bell. 

His  breakfast  was  brought  upstairs  by  the  ser- 
vant, an  angular  drudge  named  Delia,  with  big 
feet  in  broken  shoes,  and  displaying,  under  frowzy 
hair,  a  pair  of  dull  eyes  and  a  patient  smile. 

She  stood  at  the  foot  of  the  bed,  twisting  up  a 
spotted  apron  in  hands  that  appeared  already  to 
have  sifted  tons  of  ashes,  scrubbed  acres  of  floors , 
and  washed  a  myriad  greasy  pans:  and  with  one 
foot  advanced  toward  the  door,  and  her  body  half 
turned,  she  seemed  continually  ready  to  take  flight. 
When  she  had  recovered  somewhat  from  her  em- 


NINA  355 

barrassment  before  "so  fine  a  gentleman,"  Delia 
enlightened  Mr.  Piers  about  his  neighbors. 

In  the  "ground  floor  front,"  a  female,  seldom 
seen,  sat  all  day  in  a  darkened  room,  behind  a 
crystal  ball,  professing  to  bring  back  sweethearts 
grown  indifferent,  to  restore  lost  articles,  and  to 
disclose  the  name  of  "the  other  woman."  The  rear 
was  occupied  by  Mrs.  Snatt  and  her  three  small 
children,  of  whose  presence  below  Felix  needed  no 
announcement,  since  he  heard  them,  at  all  hours, 
whining,  bawling,  and  being  spanked.  Occasion- 
ally, he  saw  them  in  the  back  yard,  wandering  over 
an  oblong  plat  of  barren  earth,  beneath  a  net-work 
of  clothes  lines.  The  boy  was  a  stupid-looking 
child  with  too  large  a  head  and  spasmodic  gestures. 
The  little  girl,  pale  and  languid,  walked  unsteadily. 
Mrs.  Snatt's  third  offspring,  a  babe  in  arms,  of 
indeterminable  sex,  seemed,  on  the  contrary,  to 
judge  from  the  redness  of  its  face  and  the  power  of 
its  lungs,  excessively  robust.  Mr.  Snatt  was  not  at 
home.  One  gathered,  from  Delia,  that  the  only 
time  he  gave  his  family  this  treat  was  when  his 
wife  had  more  than  "cleared  expenses." 

On  the  second  floor,  directly  in  front  of  Felix's 
apartment,  dwelt  a  theatrical  couple  somewhat  ad- 
vanced in  years,  known  to  the  public  as  "The 
Delaclaires,  King  and  Queen  of  Polite  Vaudeville." 
Their  son — a  youth  who,  according  to  Delia,  "wasn't 
much" — slept  in  the  adjacent  hall  bedroom. 

The  upper  regions  were  inhabited  by  various 
actors  and  actresses.  Sometimes  Felix  encountered 


3$6  PREDESTINED 

on  the  stairs  a  short,  thin-faced  damsel,  always 
attired  in  the  most  girlish  hats  and  dresses,  a  psyche- 
knot  of  straw-colored  hair  protruding  backward 
six  inches  from  her  neck.  She  left  behind  her  a  trail 
of  perfume  of  that  sort  which  causes  persons  in 
the  street  to  stop  and  look  round  in  astonishment. 

Miss  Qewan  also  lived  overhead;  and  Felix,  one 
day  meeting  her  in  the  vestibule,  was  curious  to 
know  why  she  had  chosen  this  abode. 

She  assured  him  that  when  he  knew  the  habits  and 
ambitions  of  the  other  lodgers,  he  would  change  his 
mind  about  them. 

"And  yet  you've  not  gone  back  to  the  chorus?" 

"That's  different." 

She  was  now  cashier  in  a  restaurant  on  lower 
Broadway.  This  position  she  had  obtained  through 
the  friendly  offices  of  the  "right  sort  of  man" — a 
disinterested  benefactor. 

"He's  a  saloon  keeper.  But  not  what  you'd 
expect." 

"I  know  some  excellent  saloon  keepers,"  Felix 
made  haste  to  assure  her.  But  she  gave  him  a  sad 
look  that  put  him  out  of  countenance. 

"And  you,  I  suppose,  are  writing?" 

He  responded,  with  a  mirthless  laugh : 

"As  you  can  see,  I've  found  literature  a  poor  crutch." 

Nevertheless,  next  day  he  had  a  stroke  of  luck. 
He  was  accepted  provisionally  as  a  reporter  on  The 
Torch,  an  evening  newspaper  of  revolutionary  ten- 
dencies and  a  large  circulation,  published  on  Park 
Row.  His  salary  was  fixed  at  twenty  dollars  a  week 


NINA  357 

He  breathed  again  the  air  smelling  of  printer's  ink, 
paper,  pipe  smoke,  and  dusty  floors;  he  was  sur- 
rounded by  a  familiar  clatter;  he  experienced  the 
ennui  that  had  beset  him  in  the  office  of  The  Evening 
Sphere.  But  the  two  newspapers  were  intrinsically 
dissimilar. 

In  the  pages  of  The  Torch,  accuracy  was  a  neg- 
ligible quality;  mendacity  which  produced  a  thrill 
was  an  accomplishment;  trivial  facts  were  inflated 
recklessly  by  fancy  in  order  that  headlines  a  foot 
deep  might  shock  the  general  eye;  and,  to  excite 
the  emotionalism  of  the  masses,  the  part  of  criminals 
was  taken  in  murder  trials,  the  rich  were  crudely 
caricatured  for  their  wealth  and,  at  the  same  time, 
remarked  obsequiously  for  their  expensive  entertain- 
ments, while  the  editorial  articles,  reduced  to  the 
simplest  terms,  bristled  with  praises  of  "the  common 
people,"  and  abuse  of  "moneyed  tyrants."  The 
reporters  held  their  breath  when  the  great  man  who 
wrote  these  essays,  on  a  salary  of  thirty  thousand 
dollars  a  year,  stalked,  with  impassive  visage,  to  his 
automobile. 

After  work,  the  young  man  stopped  at  the  board- 
ing-house for  the  bull-terrier,  which  the  servant,  from 
admiration  of  Felix,  had  been  stuffing  with  scraps 
of  food  all  day.  In  a  restaurant  on  West  Four- 
teenth Street  he  dined  for  a  half  dollar.  After- 
ward, he  entered  Quilty's  saloon. 

For  a  while,  he  had  remained  away  from  this 
resort  through  delicacy.  But  other  places  in  that 
neighborhood  were  not  the  same:  and  he  had 


3  $8  PREDESTINED 

argued  that,  after  all,  the  living  were  exculpated  for 
indulging  even  in  bereavement  their  habitual  appe- 
tites. It  was  invariably  with  a  faint  tremor  of 
anticipation  that  he  glimpsed  the  bar,  the  mirrors, 
the  pyramids  of  glasses  which  the  bartender  was 
<  always  polishing  and  rearranging — a  task  never 
finished. 

There,  business  was  good.  Situated  on  a  thor- 
oughfare where  many  cheap  concert  halls  lured  from 
surrounding  districts  crowds  of  humble  pleasure- 
seekers,  the  dram  shop  caught  every  day  new  cus' 
tomers,  youthful,  vigorous,  settled  in  employment, 
promising  protracted  patronage.  As  a  result,  Mr. 
Quilty  was  not  troubled  by  the  bugbear  of  saloon 
keepers  operating  in  less  populous  regions — by  the 
apprehension,  namely,  that  incipient  drinkers  would 
not,  sufficiently  for  continued  profit,  replace  the 
worn  out  and  bankrupt. 

Clean  shaven,  carefully  dressed,  showing  a  gold 
watch  chain  and  the  emblem  of  a  benevolent  society, 
he  received  graciously,  in  his  place  between  the 
cashier's  desk  and  the  cigar  stand,  the  respectful 
salutations  of  the  immature,  and  the  trite  flippancy 
of  the  middle-aged.  Sometimes,  closing  the  back 
room  to  feminine  trade,  he  retired  with  corpulent, 
ruddy  Irishmen  in  fancy  waistcoats,  to  concoct 
stratagems,  against  constrictive  legislation,  of  which 
mere  customers  could  only  guess  the  brilliancy. 
But  despite  Ijis  political  importance,  Mr.  Quilty 
never  failed  to  pass  the  time  of  day  with  Felix, 
whom  he  approached  with  an  air  at  once  propitiating 


NINA  359 

and  self-conscious.  At  times,  he  referred  to  his 
daughters.  They  ought  to  learn  French  and  music  ? 
He  understood  that  there  was  a  school  in  Connecti- 
cut where  young  ladies  were  taught  everything 
fashionable — even  the  proper  way  to  enter  a  car- 
riage. His  apparent  idea  was  to  remove  his  children 
ultimately  from  all  associations  that  could  readily 
recall  their  origin.  Meanwhile,  they  ought  to  have 
some  one  in  the  position  of  a  mother.  And  the  saloon 
keeper,  after  looking  at  Felix  vacantly,  remarked : 

"I  hear  you're  boarding  at  Mrs.  Snatt's?"  A 
lady  had  told  him  so. 

"Miss  Qewan,"  ejaculated  Felix.  "Why,  then 
you  must  be — 

A  blush  brought  into  prominence  Mr.  Quilty's 
scar.  He  made  haste  to  explain  that  friendship. 

He  had  seen  her  grow  up  on  the  "East  Side,"  the 
reputable  daughter  of  a  policeman.  Left  an  orphan 
while  in  her  teens,  she  had  suffered,  as  a  result  of 
too  much  -trustfulness,  in  a  familiar  manner.  From 
that  time,  life  had  been  an  uphill  road  for  her. 
Quilty,  meeting  her  recently,  had  obtained  for  her 
the  position  in  a  Broadway  restaurant. 

"And,  mind  ye,  as  good  a  woman  as  you;ll  find 
anywheres!" 

"Moreover,  deserving  of  something  better,"  Felix 
assented,  heartily. 

Quilty  rubbed  his  chin,  and  looked  uncomfortable. 

He  was  relieved  by  the  appearance  of  a  fat,  good- 
natured  fellow  of  forty-five,  in  a  baggy  sack  suit, 
with  a  large  mustache,  and  slightly  protruding  eyes. 


360  PREDESTINED 

"Mr.  Piers,  shake  hands  with  my  brother-in-law, 
Mr.  Connla." 

The  stranger  stared  intently  at  Felix,  suppressed 
a  grin,  and  inquired  of  his  relative,  in  a  gruff  voice: 

"Where's  Pandle?" 

The  bewigged  habitue",  of  mysterious  occupation, 
was  not  there.  Quilty,  with  an  expression  of  dis- 
gust, exclaimed: 

"Has  he  been  working  again!" 

"That's  a  question.  I'll  hunt  him;  but  you 
warn  him  meantime,  d'ye  see,  for  I've  nothing 
against  him  personally."  Then,  turning  to  the 
young  man,  with  a  twinkling  eye, 

"You'll  not  remember  me?" 

He  identified  himself  as  the  detective  who  had 
rescued  Felix,  one  night,  from  some  negroes. 

"And  that  was  a  good  bull-terrier,  too!  Have  you 
got  him  yet?" 

Felix  whistled  to  Pat,  who  was  standing  on  his 
hind  legs  before  the  "free  lunch"  buffet.  The 
detective,  squatting  down,  made  friends  with  the 
dog  at  once. 

But  he  declared  that  the  beast  was  too  fat,  that 
he  was  "losing  his  lines."  Felix  had  to  admit  the 
justice  of  this  criticism.  Pat  got  too  much  food 
and  not  enough  exercise;  so  that  his  neck  and  body 
were  becoming  heavy,  while  his  white  head,  covered 
with  the  pink  scars  of  many  battles,  was  taking  on 
that  swollen,  battered  look  noticeable  in  good  dogs 
permitted  to  "run  to  seed." 

"He's    been    neglected,    that    terrier,"    was    the 


NINA  361 

detective's  blunt  comment.  "He's  done  too  much 
time  loafing  in  kitchens  and  looking  at  ugly  people. 
Faith,  it's  the  truth — a  dog  gets  to  look  like  the 
place  he's  in,  as  a  man  does,  too.  He  needs,  now, 
exercise,  and  handsome  faces  round  him.  Leave 
me  have  him  on  Sundays :  I'll  take  him  for  a  twelve 
mile  walk  into  the  counthry,  and  he'll  get  both  his 
requirements  at  once." 

On  several  occasions,  the  detective  returned  to 
the  saloon.  Pandle,  he  confessed,  had  proved  him- 
self to  be  "  temporarily  an  honest  man."  Felix 
found  Mr.  Connla  an  entertaining  person. 

Of  a  sanguine  and  impulsive  disposition,  he  was 
better  known  for  bravery  than  for  such  subtle  talents 
as  inform  the  traditional  secret  agent.  He  had, 
however,  learned,  from  long  contact  with  human 
nature  in  its  crises,  to  be  astonished  at  nothing,  to 
regard  without  indignation  the  utmost  depravity, 
to  find  in  every  delinquent,  whether  devoted  to 
petty  villainy  or  to  great,  something  perhaps  not 
alien  to  himself.  In  fine,  he  was  a  philosopher: 
and  to  stand  beside  him,  on  summer  evenings,  in 
front  of  Quilty's  windows,  while  with  one  racy 
phrase  he  tore  the  mask,  so  to  speak,  from  the 
visages  of  passers-by,  was,  in  Felix's  opinion,  a 
"liberal  education."  Once,  Mackeron,  formerly 
the  tenor  of  ''The  Lost  Venus,"  now  shabbier,  sal- 
lower,  and  more  nearly  expressionless  than  ever, 
passed  with  a  nod.  Connla  genially  inquired  of 
Felix : 

"Who's  your  friend  the  dope  fiend?" 


362  PREDESTINED 

« 

"You  can't  mean  that  man!" 

"Why,  me  boy,  look  at  the  wooden  face  of  him, 
and  them  little  points  of  eyes.  It's  cocaine  or  mor- 
phine, and,  for  my  choice,  cocaine.  Ask  him  some 
day  in  his  ear  for  a  pinch  o'  the  white  stuff.  I'll  go 
bail  that  he'll  projuice  it." 

Felix  did  not  re-enter  the  saloon  that  night. 

Was  there  not  even  a  sinister  similarity  between 
his  case  and  Mackeron's?  Once  more  he  woke  to 
full  realization  of  his  predicament,  like  a  wayfarer, 
wandering  in  the  darkness,  who,  at  a  lightning  flash, 
finds  himself  surrounded  by  the  most  appalling 
perils. 

He  sat  down  to  discover  the  secret  of  this  weak- 
ness, apparently  unalterable. 

He  reviewed  his  innumerable  revulsions  from  de- 
bauchery, his  momentary  states  of  continence,  his 
relapses.  He  marvelled  at  the  swiftness  with  which, 
In  him,  intense  repentance  had  ever  been  followed 
by  impatience  of  restraint.  He  tried  to  understand 
the  rapid  change  from  disgust  to  fresh  desire,  wherein, 
invariably,  a  host  of  arguments,  ingeniously  evolved, 
to  prove  his  vices  detrimental,  had  with  well-nigh 
inconceivable  rapidity  lost  all  value.  He  asked  him- 
self "Why  he  was  not  like  other  men,"  who  could 
restrain  themselves  from  ruinous  excesses. 

But  he  remained  without  an  answer  to  his  query. 

Thereupon,  he  attempted  to  alarm  himself  with 
the  direst  of  forebodings.  He  followed  vagabonds 
reeling  along  the  curb,  to  impress  upon  his  mind 
the  picture  of  their  degradation.  He  got  his  asso- 


NINA  363 

ciates  to  recount  stories  of  lives  wrecked  by  drink. 
He  listened  to  evangelists  preaching  temperance  on 
street  corners,  and,  departing,  with  homely  exhorta- 
tions ringing  in  his  ears,  swore  that  he  had  stood 
for  the  last  time  at  a  bar.  Also,  he  repudiated 
tobacco,  which  seemed  to  increase  his  thirst  for 
liquor.  For  an  hour  or  two,  he  would  observe  men 
streaming  in  and  out  of  cafes  and  tobacco  shops 
with  feelings  of  commiseration. 

Or  perhaps,  walking  at  night,  beneath  the  moon, 
in  parts  of  town  where  no  such  temptations  were  to 
be  met,  he  experienced,  all  unexpectedly,  a  belief, 
in  the  beginning  faint  and  tremulous,  that  he  had 
finally  left  his  frailty  behind.  From  the  wide-spread 
fulguration  of  the  clouds,  on  the  path  of  the  moon- 
light, through  the  breathless  ether,  serenity  flowed 
down  into  his  heart;  and  an  exaltation  that  drew 
value  from  the  beauty,  the  immensity,  and  the 
purity  of  space,  raised  his  whole  body  toward  those 
heights  which  the  soul  instinctively  informs  with  an 
eternal  holiness.  Then  a  presence,  impalpable  and 
yet  undeniable,  was  closer  to  him  than  the  nearest 
human  being:  and  it  needed  apparently  but  a  short 
continuation  of  this  ecstasy  to  disembody  forever 
the  spirit  already  half  released.  His  gazed  roamed 
the  heavens;  his  lips  parted;  the  words  broke  from 
him,  "Yes,  I  feel  it  now!  I  have  been  wrong.  You 
are  there !  You  have  been  there  all  the  while !  You 
will  be  there  forever!"  And  stretching  out  his  arms, 
he  pleaded: 

"Save  me  now!" 


364  PREDESTINED 

Could  one  sink  again,  after  soaring  to  such  alti- 
tudes? He  went  home  sure  that  his  nature  had 
been  altered  to  its  depths. 

But  afterward,  he  could  not  avoid  wondering  at 
the  simplicity  of  his  release.  He  asked  himself,  "Is 
it  not  strange,  that  I  feel  none  of  my  old  desires?" 
His  condition  soon  seemed  to  him  almost  too  good 
to  last :  he  was  expecting,  at  every  sight  of  swinging 
doors  and  tobacconists'  effigies,  other  sensations,  as 
one  expects,  at  the  tridiurnal  sight  of  a  dining-room, 
a  recurrence  of  hunger. 

"They  will  return,  no  doubt,  those  cravings. 
Well,  I  must  be  on  the  watch,  and,  at  their  approach, 
spring  to  arms." 

Then,  while  wondering  at  their  delay  in  laying 
siege  to  him,  he  felt  their  onslaught.  At  once,  his 
contemplated  manoeuvres  all  forgotten,  he  was  like 
a  warrior,  enfeebled  by  the  remembrance  of  innu- 
merable defeats,  who  sees  at  hand  the  crest  of  an 
enemy  that  has  always  worsted  him. 

"How  weak  I  am!"  And  each  confession  of 
weakness  made  his  next  overthrow  the  easier. 

Sometimes,  pausing  in  a  deserted  street  at  mid- 
night, he  raised  his  burning  eyes  toward  the  stars. 
"What  a  fool  I  was!  Of  all  living  things,  only  man 
is  so  fatuous,  so  conceited,  as  to  believe  himself 
worthy  of  immortality  and  the  attentions  of  a  god. 
A  god,  indeed!  Well,  supposing  that  there  is  one, 
a  pretty  world  he  has  made,  this  time!" 

With  distorted  face,  he  shouted,  ironically: 

"I  say,  up  there!    This  is  a  sorry  mess,  this  par- 


NINA  365 

ticular  job!  May  a  tenant,  who  didn't  seek  his 
accommodations,  presume  to  enter  a  complaint?" 

Silence  fell.    A  chill  ran  down  his  back. 

Everything  in  life  irritated  him — the  commonplace 
remarks  of  strangers,  the  stupid  conduct  of  persons 
with  whom  he  had  nothing  to  do,  the  injustice  of 
acts  which  harmonized  with  public  opinion.  When 
he  read  the  newspapers,  he  growled  at  "the  imbecility 
and  vulgarity  of  humanity  at  large."  An  obstruc- 
tion of  traffic  enraged  him.  A,  collar  that  did  not 
button  easily  he  tore  into  shreds. 

The  disgust  that  he  felt  for  everything  connected 
with  the  boarding-house  resulted  in  unprecedented 
outbursts.  He  would  have  liked  to  wring  the  necks 
of  Mrs.  Snatt's  children  screeching  at  one  another 
in  the  back  yard;  the  noises  that  re-echoed  nightly 
through  the  corridors  excited  in  him  an  intense 
longing  to  "cut  the  throats  of  the  whole  gang." 

But  such  violent  moments  were  all  solitary;  his 
savagery,  from  cowardice,  died  out  at  the  first  word 
of  ordinary  intercourse:  and  none  would  have  sus- 
pected, from  his  conversation,  that  he  was  often 
shaken,  in  secret,  by  a  homicidal  frenzy. 

It  must  have  been  generally  observed,  however, 
toward  the  middle  of  summer,  that  he  was  growing 
eccentric. 

While  talking  with  an  acquaintance,  he  became 
absent-minded,  gazed  into  space,  finally  uttered  an 
inappropriate  comment.  At  Quilty's,  he  would 
leave  a  gathering  of  revellers  without  excuses  or 
farewells;  and,  at  times,  in  the  midst  of  a  silence, 


366  PREDESTINED 

he  would  raise  his  head  abruptly,  as  if  some  one  had 
called  him.  Truth  is,  he  was  frequently  obsessed 
by  this  belief,  particularly  on  a  day  following  an 
exceptional  drinking  bout.  He  heard  his  name 
pronounced  behind  his  back,  but,  on  turning  round, 
found  no  one  near  him.  These  voices  usually  re- 
sembled those  of  his  companions  of  the  previous 
evening.  Once,  though,  he  was  frightened  to  hear 
a  treble  intonation  like  Emma's. 

"Am  I  losing  my  mind?" 

Connla,  to  whom  he  confessed,  in  guarded 
language,  this  delusion,  assured  him,  with  a  hearty 
laugh,  that  it  was  a  natural  concomitant  of  "the 
morning  after."  Then,  putting  on  a  look  of  concern 
and  approaching  his  protruding  eyes  to  Felix's,  the 
detective  added: 

"As  a  matter  of  fact,  if  you'll  excuse  the  liberty, 
you'd  do  best  by  letting  up  a  bit  on  Quilty's  stuff, 
relation  of  mine  though  he  may  be.  Take  a  run 
into  the  counthry.  It'd  do  that  terrier  a  world  o' 
good,  besides.  Or,  at  least,  get  some  business 
that'll  occipy  all  your  time." 

This  was  what  Felix  was  attempting  to  do;  for  he 
had  just  been  discharged  summarily  from  The  Torch. 

He  visited  the  editors  of  Sunday  newspapers,  with 
"special  stories,"  of  a  kind  that  could  be  illustrated 
by  sensational  pen-pictures  reproduced  over  tints. 
These  were  tales  of  half-forgotten  "soldiers  of  for- 
tune," tragical  histories  of  famous  jewels,  romances 
of  old  ships,  anecdotes  of  Revolutionary  landmarks. 
For  such  work,  he  received  eight  dollars  a  column; 


NINA  367 

but  the  demand  was  limited,  and  "one  did  not  think 
of  a  new  theme  every  day."  He  still  had  too  much 
spare  time  on  his  hands. 

If  only  he  could  gather  energy  and  wit  enough  to 
begin  "that  masterpiece!"  He  picked  up  Pierre 
Buron's  book.  "Oh,  fortunate  wanderer  in  the  laby- 
rinth, who  did  not  lose  himself  before  leaving  behind 
his  relic!" 

When  he  took  pen  in  hand,  an  excruciating  rest- 
lessness possessed  him.  He  rose  to  pace  the  floor; 
he  saw  his  hat  lying  on  a  chair;  on  approaching  the 
door,  he  could  not  restrain  himself  from  dashing  out. 

Through  byways  in  the  district  where  he  lived,  he 
pursued,  with  the  same  wistfulness  as  in  the  past, 
the  mirage  of  pleasure,  now  exceedingly  dilute. 
And  yet,  just  before  his  every  disillusionment,  when 
he  seemed  on  the  point  of  holding  fast  that  which 
he  was  attempting  to  embrace,  he  discovered  in  the 
most  uninspiring  material  something  winsome — the 
tenuous  charm  that  may  lurk,  for  the  inordinately 
desirous  soul,  beneath  the  meanest  of  superficies. 

Again,  in  desperation,  reduced  to  a  state  of  flac- 
cidity  that  shamed  him,  he  frequented  vaudeville 
shows,  "smoking  concerts,"  and  dime  museums 
where,  in  the  midst  of  languid  men,  he  stood  before 
the  lecturer's  platform,  listening  to  pompous  absurdi- 
ties with  a  feeling  that  he  was  already  wasted, 
finished,  thrown  away. 

At  last,  the  monotony  of  familiar  places  became 
almost  unbearable.  Since  the  days  were  growing 
shorter,  he  walked,  for  a  change,  uptown. 


368  PREDESTINED 

One  evening,  at  Fifth  Avenue  and  Thirty-fourth 
Street,  his  notice  was  attracted  by  a  sign  in  the 
window  of  an  art  dealer's  shop,  which  read,  "View 
of  M.  Paul  Pavin's  'Portrait  of  Lady  and  Child.'" 

Passing  through  an  exhibition  gallery,  where  the 
walls  were  crowded  with  many  oil  paintings  in 
gilt  frames,  he  entered  a  room  hung  with  curtains 
of  maroon  velvet,  and  containing  but  one  picture, 
revealed,  straight  ahead,  beneath  a  flood  of  yellow 
light.  A  woman  in  a  Nile  green,  iridescent  evening 
dress  was  leaning  forward,  with  a  fluid  movement, 
toward  a  cradle  which  occupied  the  foreground. 

It  was  Nina. 

The  automobile  was  at  the  door;  some  scene  of 
gayety — a  dinner  party,  or,  maybe,  a  dance — was 
waiting;  and  now,  before  setting  out,  the  mother 
had  entered  the  nursery  to  bid  her  child  good-night. 
Bending  over  the  cradle,  with  hands  half  unclasped 
before  her  breast,  she  was  portrayed  as  her  attitude 
of  caution  melted  into  a  movement  preliminary  to  a 
caress.  For  the  baby,  its  small,  round  head  half 
hidden  by  the  swelling  of  the  pillow,  had  opened  its 
eyes;  and  on  its  face  was  displayed  an  expression 
of  rapt  wonder,  at  sight  of  the  vision,  exquisitely 
shining,  that  hovered  over  it. 

She  had  changed,  perhaps.  Her  face  had  taken 
on  the  aspect  of  completion  which  sometimes,  with 
motherhood,  enriches  intricately  a  beauty  previously 
simple.  And,  thanks  to  a  painter  better  known  for 
cynicism  than  tenderness,  there  was  exhaled  from 
the  canvas,  notwithstanding  the  glamour  of  the  ball 


NINA  369 

dress,  something  of  the  atmosphere  that  pervades, 
in  cathedrals,  certain  pictures  of  maternity.  • 

Felix  let  his  hands  fall  to  his  sides. 

This,  then,  was  what  he  had  lost! 


CHAPTER  XVII 

DID  her  child  content  her?  Did  her  husband 
please  her?  Where  was  she  now?  What  was  the 
tenor  of  her  life  ? 

He  seemed  to  see  her,  clad  in  a  dress  of  dull-blue 
silk,  stooping  to  tend,  with  curling  fingers,  the 
flowers  in  a  garden  border.  Or,  ruddy  and  with 
wind-blown  locks,  she  sat  her  horse  in  a  gray  skirt 
and  a  white  linen  waist,  while  from  the  hand  encased 
in  a  stained  glove  there  dangled  a  riding-whip. 
Again,  her  neck  was  bare,  and  decked  with  tur- 
quoises ;  her  hair  pressed  down  about  her  brows  in  a 
thick  braid,  like  a  fillet;  and  nothing  could  have 
been  more  vivid  than  his  visualization  of  her  face — 
the  alert  eyes  that  searched  his  countenance,  the 
upper  lip  lifted  to  a  point  as  if  inviting  kisses,  the 
softness  and  the  candor  of  a  look  that  he,  on  a  night 
of  smothered  stars  and  perfumed  foliage,  had  finally 
understood. 

"It  is  true:  once  upon  a  time,  she  offered  herself 
to  me!" 

That  thought  amazed  him. 

For  she  inhabited  a  gentle  and  luxuriously  fur- 
nished world,  to  which  rumors  of  ignobility  and  of 
shabbiness  penetrated  no  more  distinctly  than  the 
whine  of  a  mendicant's  accordeon  filtering  through 
the  window  draperies  of  a  ball  room. 

37° 


NINA  371 

He  fell  to  pondering  the  various  stages  of  his  with- 
drawal from  that  sphere. 

Eileen,  Marie,  Emma!  In  each  of  these  he 
should  have  perceived,  before  the  irrevocable  step, 
an  instrument  formed  as  if  expressly  for  his  deteriora- 
tion. And  yet,  toward  the  last  as  toward  the  first, 
he  had  been  impelled  by  a  longing  both  subtle  and 
irresistible. 

To  love,  to  be  loved,  not  tranquilly,  but  intensely, 
not  once,  but  often!  Perhaps  this  desire  was  not  to 
be  separated  from  his  other  craving  ?  No  doubt  the 
two,  symptomatic  of  an  unquenchable  appetency  for 
inordinate  emotions,  went  hand  in  hand  ? 

Still,  if  the  gratification  of  his  sentimental  yearn- 
ings had  been  painful,  the  reminiscences  that  lingered 
held  a  tenuous  charm.  Often,  in  moments  of  relaxa- 
tion, he  had  a  quick  thrill  of  memory:  he  recalled  a 
period  now  strangely  sweet  to  think  of,  but  in  ex- 
periencing which  he  had  known  only  mental  con- 
fusion and  distress.  Whenever  he  lamented,  "If 
only  I  could  begin  again,  and  escape  my  follies!" 
the  remonstrance  was  intruded,  "But,  in  that  case, 
what  reveries  I  should  miss!" 

Now,  however,  his  life  again  lacked  a  romantic 
object.  And  thoughts  of  Nina  began  to  occupy  his 
mind. 

She,  though  possibly  even  in  the  same  city,  was  as 
far  removed  from  him  as  are  the  princesses  of 
children's  fairy  tales  in  their  palaces  fashioned  out 
of  one  mammoth  pearl;  and  her  very  inaccessibility 
soon  evoked  an  interest  enriched  by  pathos,  of  a 


372  PREDESTINED 

bewitching  novelty  because  necessarily  idealistic, 
absorbing,  finally,  all  Felix's  habitual  considerations 
of  the  horizon  that  could  not  be  approached,  the 
mirage  visible  only  from  afar,  the  dream  one  never 
attained. 

Had  she  forgotten  him?  Surely,  at  times,  a 
chance  word,  a  sound  of  long-familiar  music,  the 
tint  of  a  sunset  from  a  hilltop,  or  the  odor  of  tube- 
roses, made  her  pause  and  think  of  Felix.  And  who 
could  say  but  that  into  such  reveries  intruded  some 
regrets?  When  familiar  presences  lost  their  attrac- 
tiveness, when  repetition  induced  sensations  of 
monotony,  did  she  never  send  conjectures  winging 
forth  into  the  unknown,  with  the  query,  "What  if  it 
could  have  been  otherwise?" 

Then  there  was  a  bond  between  them  still ! 

Besides,  the  white  bull-terrier  was  a  gift  of  hers. 
Putting  his  arm  round  the  dog's  neck,  Felix  whis- 
pered into  an  ear  made  ragged  by  the  teeth  of  many 
a  four-footed  enemy : 

"I  must  take  better  care  of  this  old  fellow!" 

He  forbade  Delia,  the  housemaid,  to  feed  Pat.  He 
laid  in  a  store  of  dog  biscuits,  bathed  the  brute  every 
morning,  and  kept  the  brass-bound  collar  polished. 
On  Sundays,  he  frequently  relinquished  his  pet  to 
the  detective,  for  a  run  through  the  fields,  along  the 
New  Jersey  Palisades. 

Connla — on  his  "day  off"  an  enthusiastic  pedes- 
trian— inveigled  Felix,  once  or  twice,  on  autumn 
afternoons,  into  a  ten-mile  tramp  to  the  north  of  the 
city.  But  the  young  man  came  back  from  such 


NINA  373 

jaunts  exhausted,  with  the  appearance  of  a  person 
who,  in  the  detective's  phrase,  had  been  "chased  by 
the  Indians."  In  fact,  the  degeneration  of  his 
muscles,  the  disability  of  his  lungs,  and  the  irregu- 
lar action  of  his  heart,  prevented  Felix  from  con- 
tinuing those  excursions.  His  wanderings  rarely 
extended  far  from  Fourteenth  Street. 

There  the  signs  of  penny  arcades,  shooting  gal- 
leries, and  "medical  museums"  were  spread  out 
above  bemirrored  doorways;  dirty  awnings  every- 
where let  down  their  scalloped  edges;  the  thorough- 
fare was  obstructed  by  cubical  showcases  containing 
nickel-plated  toilet  sets,  false  teeth,  flimsy  waistcoats, 
and  roughly  printed  post-cards;  while  shop-keepers 
in  slack  trousers  stood  on  their  thresholds,  the 
"pullers  in"  of  clothing  merchants  paced  back  and 
forth  with  predacious  eyes,  the  door-keeper  of  a  con- 
cert hall,  armed  with  a  club,  drove  ragamuffins  from 
before  the  bill-boards,  and,  amid  the  crowd,  women 
of  various  ages,  with  bobbing  plumes  and  switch- 
ing skirts,  exhibited  their  complaisant  faces,  their 
draggled  petticoats,  and  their  shoes  run  down  at  the 
heels. 

The  October  rains  came  to  wash  this  avenue: 
then  winter  reached  town;  and,  an  hour  after  every 
fall  of  snow,  brown  slush,  churned  into  mud  by  a 
multitude  of  feet,  covered  the  pavements.  The 
street  where  stood  Mrs.  Snatt's  boarding-house  was, 
apparently,  of  too  little  importance  often  to  be 
cleared.  Heaps  of  snow,  accumulating  along  the 
gutters,  were  buried  under  dirt  and  rubbish;  grocers' 


374  PREDESTINED 

wagons,  drawing  up  in  front  of  doorways,  sank  to 
their  hubs;  and,  whenever  thaws  set  in,  L  chilly 
dampness  was  exhaled  on  the  night  air.  Old  men, 
with  their  hands  pressed  against  their  throats,  went 
along  coughing.  Mrs.  Snatt's  two  eldest  4'tmdren 
fell  ill. 

For  that  matter,  she  was  usually  worried  about 
both  of  them. 

The  boy,  six  years  old,  suffered  from  nervous 
irritability,  and  slight,  involuntary  muscular  con- 
tractions. He  would  sit  for  hours  with  his  large 
head  lowered,  his  mouth  open,  his  eyes  vacant ;  then, 
abruptly  looking  upward,  he  would  give  vent  to  a 
prolonged  howl.  Talking  a  jargon  comprehensible 
only  to  his  mother,  he  could  not  be  made  to  study 
his  primer,  and,  indeed,  seemed  incapable  of  learn- 
ing anything.  When  crossed,  Willie  went  into  fits 
of  rage,  threw  himself  upon  the  floor,  beat  his  face 
with  his  hands,  and  screamed.  Besides,  he  was 
almost  as  badly  off  as  Job  for  boils. 

The  four-year-old  girl  did  not  enjoy  the  chubbi- 
ness  usual  in  children  of  her  age.  With  wan  eyes 
and  a  fixed,  listless  smile,  she  dragged  her  spindling 
legs  along;  and  the  hairless  doll  that  she  fondled 
was  scarcely  less  responsive  than  Jennie  to  surprises.  • 
Her  face  brightened,  however,  when  Pat  appeared 
before  her  with  grinning  jaws ;  and  once,  when  Felix 
brought  home  a  new  doll  with  taffy-colored  curls,  he 
was  rewarded  by  a  slowly  gathering  expression  of 
beatitude. 

But  the  baby,  its  cheeks  round  and  rosy,  its  tiny 


NINA  375 

mouth  continually  blowing  bubbles  of  saliva,  crowed, 
winked,  and  beat  its  short  arms  against  its  bib  from 
lustihood. 

"By  George,"  Felix  complimented  Mrs.  Snatt, 
"this  little  chap  is  vigorous  enough." 

"Oh,  yes,"  the  landlady  assented,  with  an  uneasy 
look. 

She  was  harassed,  in  addition,  by  business  cares. 
Her  tenants,  for  the  most  part  transient,  sometimes 
disappeared  leaving  behind  a  battered  trunk  full  of 
newspapers  and  bricks.  The  clairvoyant,  in  the 
ground  floor  front,  a  specialty  of  whose  it  was  to 
direct  patrons  toward  the  road  to  wealth,  contem- 
plated the  abandonment  of  her  profession.  This 
soothsayer,  it  appeared,  was  eaten  up  with  chagrin 
because  she  did  not  have  "the  luck  of  some  people" 
—of  a  woman,  for  instance,  who,  with  great  profit, 
was  establishing  a  fashionable  trade  uptown,  "an 
interloper" — in  fine — "that  called  herself  Mme. 
Babbage." 

Then,  too,  "The  King  and  Queen  of  Polite 
Vaudeville"  were  likely,  at  any  time,  to  receive 
the  most  flattering  offers  in  respect  of  a  long  tour. 

Mr.  Delaclaire,  a  short,  bow-legged,  bull-necked 
person  of  fifty,  with  the  lineaments  of  a  Roman 
Emperor  in  hard  luck,  had  made  his  neighbor's 
acquaintance  by  the  simple  expedient  of  "borrow- 
ing" a  match.  An  introduction  to  his  wife  was 
inevitable;  so  Felix  made  his  bow  before  a  stout, 
domestic-looking  woman  of  middle  age,  whose  hair 
had  nearly  all  reassumed  its  original  brown,  and 


376  PREDESTINED 

whose  shape,  in  corsets  that  sank  inward  just  below 
the  breast,  recalled  the  fashion  plates  of  other 
days. 

When  young,  Mrs.  Delaclaire  had  carried  a 
spear  in  theatrical  productions  full  of  good  and 
wicked  sprites,  of  transformation  scenes,  of  dis- 
appearing demons,  and  of  red  fire.  In  her  hours 
of  relaxation  she  had  met  the  Thespian,  who,  at 
that  time,  by  the  aid  of  thickened  shoe-soles,  had 
even  played  such  roles  as  The  Ghost  of  Hamlet's 
Father,  and  An  Old  Fellow  Set  Up  to  Personate 
Vincentio.  Though  they  earned  their  living,  nowa- 
days, by  performing  farces  in  cheap  vaudeville 
theatres,  he  had  not  entirely  abandoned  his  belief 
that  he  was  a  pattern  for  a  Shakespearian  actor; 
and,  occasionally,  carried  away  by  glimpses  of  old 
visions,  he  threw  himself  into  an  attitude,  humped 
his  back,  put  on  a  distracted  look,  and  bellowed, 
in  a  way  to  shake  the  window-panes : 

"I  think  there  be  six  Richmonds  in  the  field; 
Five  have  I  slain  to-day,  instead  of  him: 
A  horse!   a  horse!   my  kingdom  for  a  horse!" 

Of  mornings,  when  he  heard  Felix  moving  about, 
Mr.  Delaclaire  frequently  shouted  through  the  par- 
tition for  "a  loan"  of  the  newspaper.  Then  the 
young  man  found  the  Thespian  still  in  bed,  with 
his  bristly  dewlaps  resting  on  the  upper  hem  of  the 
counterpane. 

"Aha!  Salutations!  Is  it  cold  to-day?  Goodl 
Then  I  can  wear  my  fur  coat!" 


NINA  377 

He  had,  indeed,  such  a  garment,  between  brown 
and  green,  cut  in  at  the  back,  boasting  a  wealth  of 
ravelled  frogs;  while  the  pelt  with  which  it  was 
lined — of  some  yellowish  animal  unknown  to  Felix — 
had  not  given  out  before  furnishing  a  pair  of  cuffs. 

The  couple  cooked  late  breakfasts  in  a  saucepan, 
over  the  gas  jet,  kept  bottles  of  beer  on  the  outer 
window-sill,  sent  two  shirts  and  a  petticoat  to  the 
laundry  every  week,  maintained  a  high  state  of 
neglig£  so  long  as  they  remained  indoors,  sailed  out 
arm  in  arm,  with  all  their  finery  on  their  backs,  lived 
from  day  to  day,  were  fond  of  each  other. 

Their  offspring  was  named  Edwin  Booth  Dela- 
claire.  Felix  sometimes  saw  a  lean  youth  of  seven- 
teen, pale,  loutish,  with  elusive  eyes,  who  spent  his 
time  consuming  cigarettes  before  saloons,  in  the 
company  of  hoodlums  wearing  lavender  stockings 
and  green  glass  cravat  pins.  As  a  child,  the  son  had 
assisted  his  parents  on  the  stage,  disguised  in  vel- 
veteen suits,  lace  collars,  and  angelic  wigs:  he  had 
thrilled  audiences  by  reconciling  husband  and  wife 
about  to  part,  by  awakening  with  his  innocent  prattle 
the  conscience  of  a  burglar,  by  expiring  with  a  long 
speech  advising  his  father  to  be  a  better  man.  But 
now,  too  old  to  be  spanked  into  submission,  he 
rebelled  against  that  occupation,  refused,  moreover, 
to  work  at  anything,  drank  cocktails,  kept  question- 
able company,  seldom  came  home  except  to  sleep 
or  to  demand  money  from  his  parents,  of  whom  he 
was  obviously  ashamed.  Mr.  Delaclaire  confessed  to 
Felix  that  "Eddie"  was  a  source  of  worriment  to  him. 


378  PREDESTINED 

"  The  career  we  expected  of  that  child !  The  news- 
paper clippings  I  can  show  you!  The  talents  he 
ought  to  have  inherited!" 

And  Delaclaire  launched  into  family  history. 

His  own  father,  long  a  member  of  the  theatrical 
company  of  Edwin  Booth,  had  been  the  most  fiery 
Tybalt,  the  fiercest  Laertes,  of  his  day.  "Not  to 
mention  that  he  was  a  wild  one  off  the  boards,  as 
well  as  on  them.  The  whiskey  he  could  get  away 
with!  To  tell  the  truth,  if  it  hadn't  been  for  that, 
he  might  have  played  Romeo — yes,  or  Hamlet,  under 
Booth's  very  nose." 

"Such  a  heritage  of  talent  should  be  valuable," 
was  Felix's  polite  comment. 

"And  yet,"  mused  Mr.  Delaclaire,  "others  man- 
age without  it.  Look  at  Miss  Vinnie  Vatelle,  up- 
stairs. She  does  song  and  dance,  with  three  changes, 
in  the  vaudeville  circuit:  her  act  goes  big;  and  yet 
her  father  was  quite  an  ordinary  feller — a  plumber, 
I  think." 

Miss  Vinnie  Vatelle  was  the  thin-faced  damsel 
with  the  straw-colored  psyche-knot.  Felix  made 
her  acquaintance  through  Mrs.  Delaclaire,  who 
professed  that  "the  poor  girl  was  dying  to  meet 
him." 

Though  her  cheeks  were  rouged,  she  appeared 
tired;  and  the  rice  powder  which  she  had  rubbed 
under  her  light  blue  eyes  had  settled  at  the  roots 
of  her  lashes. 

Looking  up  at  Felix  coyly,  she  inquired,  in  a  flat 
voice : 


NINA  379 

"You  don't  eat  in  the  house,  I  notice,  Mr.  Piers?" 

He  explained  that  his  affairs  took  him  too  much 
abroad. . 

"I  don't  blame  you.  The  food's  nothing  extra, 
and  all  my  instincts  goes  against  basement  dining- 
rooms.  They're  so — I  don't  know — so " 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders  in  an  imitation  of  pa- 
trician haughtiness. 

Nearly  every  night,  thereafter,  he  met  her  on  the 
stairs.  She  hesitated ;  he  paused  in  his  ascent ;  they 
leaned  against  the  balustrade  to  talk.  If  he  was 
sober  enough,  they  sat  down  on  the  landing,  their 
feet  stretched  across  the  second  step  below  them. 
Her  shoes,  with  fawn-colored  cloth  tops  considerably 
soiled,  and  crumpled  toes  of  patent  leather,  were 
short  and  broad.  The  perfume  that  she  wore  was 
of  so  flagrant  an  aroma  as  to  make  Felix  dizzy. 
While  conversing,  Miss  Vatelle  munched  chewing 
gum. 

She  was  always  ready  to  talk  about  "her  art," 
her  struggles,  and  her  early  life.  She  gave  him  to 
understand  that  she  had  been  married  when  "very, 
very  young."  That  relationship  had  soon  ended  on 
account  of  incompatibility  of  temper.  He  was  a 
clerk  in  a  provincial  hotel:  she  had  met  him  while 
travelling  the  vaudeville  circuit.  Soon  she  was  go- 
ing to  start  off  again  on  tour;  and  one  evening, 
her  departure  being  imminent,  when  Felix  met  her 
in  the  corridor,  she  burst  into  tears. 

At  first,  she  would  give  no  explanation  of  this  grief. 
Finally,  however,  she  stammered: 


380  PREDESTINED 

"Hasn't  a  woman  always  got  the  right  to  07 
about  a  wedding?" 

"A  wedding!" 

Miss  Qewan,  he  was  informed,  had  just  been 
married  quietly  to  her  benefactor.  They  had  gone, 
for  their  honeymoon,  to  Niagara  Falls. 

That  night,  in  Quilty's  saloon,  champagne  was 
served  to  the  habitues.  The  merry-making  was 
marred  by  only  one  incident:  Mr.  Pandle,  relaxing 
his  pessimistic  visage  to  essay  some  seasonable  quip, 
had  his  wig  knocked  off  his  head  by  the  bar- 
tender. 

When  Quilty  returned,  the  young  man  was  among 
the  quickest  to  offer  him  congratulations. 

"And  Mrs.  Quilty's  little  sister,  who  is  away  at 
school?" 

The  bartender,  after  scrutinizing  Felix  for  a 
moment,  responded,  briefly: 

"She'll  live  with  us." 

But  Mrs.  Snatt  now  had  another  room  unoccupied. 
Besides,  her  husband  unexpectedly  returned. 

At  nightfall,  Delia,  wringing  her  grimy  hands, 
brought  the  news  upstairs.  One  knew  what  to 
expect  thenceforth!  Bills  would  be  run  up  at  wine- 
shops; money  paid  out  by  tenants  would  pass  into 
the  prodigal's  pocket ;  the  landlady  would  economize 
still  further;  the  boarders  would  rail  against  the 
food;  and,  in  the  midst  of  threats,  altercations,  de- 
partures, tears,  infantile  wails,  and  general  frenzy, 
the  author  of  these  misfortunes  would  continue  to 
indulge  an  insatiable  thirst. 


NINA  381 

"But  why  doesn't  she  throw  him  into  the  street?" 
inquired  Felix. 

"Ah,  sir,  that's  not  so  aisy,  either,  the  way  things 
is  in  this  house.  Bad  cess  to  him!  Would  you 
just  listen  to  that?" 

A  shout  rose  from  the  back  yard. 

"Delia!  You  come  downstairs  this  minute  and 
run  my  errand!  Am  I  the  master  here,  or  ain't  I?" 

In  the  failing  light,  beneath  the  stretched  clothes- 
lines, a  squat  figure  oscillated  clumsily.  A  broad 
face  was  upturned,  with  dyed  side  whiskers  running 
into  a  mustache,  a  face  on  which  Felix  thought  to 
perceive  a  narrow  mask,  dull  red,  extending  across 
the  nose.  But  this  proved  to  be  an  eruption  from 
alcoholic  poisoning. 

Mr.  Snatt  was  the  ex-drummer  of  the  Trocadero 
Theatre. 

He  soon  fulfilled  the  various  predictions  made  of 
him.  And,  not  unlike  Nero,  plucking  at  a  harp 
while  Rome  burned  down,  the  inebriate,  with  his 
wife's  venture  tottering  about  his  ears,  occasionally 
got  out  his  snare-drum  and  a  tattered  score  of 
"Poet  and  Peasant,"  the  drummer's  part  of  which 
opera  he  rehearsed  from  overture  to  finale,  rocking 
in  his  chair,  compressing  his  large  lips,  rolling  his 
eyes  in  their  inflamed  sockets,  and,  no  matter  how 
far  gone  in  liquor,  not  omitting  so  much  as  a  flourish. 
At  last,  Mrs.  Snatt  overcame  her  delicacy  and  asked 
Felix  for  eighteen  dollars  due  her. 

He  was  nearly  beside  himself  for  lack  of  money. 

So  slowly  did  his  brain  evolve  ideas,  that  it  took 


382  PREDESTINED 

him  a  week  to  write  a  "special  story"  for  the  Sunday 
newspapers.  Then,  too,  his  time  for  such  perform- 
ances was  limited:  the  middle  of  the  day  was  gen- 
erally the  only  period  when  he  could  set  pen  to 
paper  with  profitable  effect. 

But  in  Quilty's  saloon,  he  met  the  proprietor  of 
an  establishment  where  moving  pictures  were  de- 
vised. This  person  needed  the  services  of  a  writer 
endowed  with  sufficient  imagination  and  dramatic 
instinct  to  construct  brief  scenarios  appropriate  for 
performance,  in  dumb  show,  before  the  camera. 
Fifteen  dollars  was  the  price  paid  for  the  average 
manuscript. 

It  was,  at  least,  a  chance. 

Felix,  reflecting  that  the  patrons  of  Fourteenth 
Street  theatres  rarely  paid  an  admission  fee  of  more 
than  ten  cents,  recollected  melodramas  the  crude 
"situations"  of  which  had  formerly  filled  him  with 
pity  for  their  authors.  He  dismissed  from  his  mind 
his  last  aspirations  toward  subtlety,  poetry,  and 
technical  excellence  in  exposition;  he  invited,  in- 
stead, those  motives  of  inordinate  heroism,  villainy, 
and  self-sacrifice  attaining  the  excessive  climaxes 
so  satisfactory  to  the  leaders  of  dull  lives,  who, 
untroubled  by  an  access  of  logic,  glimpse,  in  the 
feverish  adventures  of  protagonists  exquisitely  valiant 
and  magnanimous,  something  of  their  own  secret 
longings. 

So,  in  Felix's  scenarios,  the  heads  of  convicts  were 
surrounded  by  halos  of  nobility,  the  hero  stopped 
the  heroine's  runaway  horse,  "the  papers"  were  dis- 


NINA  383 

covered  in  the  nick  of  time,  the  villain  was  hand- 
cuffed by  half  a  dozen  policemen,  the  lovers  fell  into 
each  other's  arms,  and,  in  the  midst  of  large  gestures, 
revolver  shots,  and  disguises  thrown  off  instan- 
taneously, virtue  triumphed,  and  vice  grovelled  in 
dismay.  The  young  man  was  able  to  pay  Mrs. 
Snatt,  to  buy  new  shoes  and  an  overcoat,  to  see 
more  money  disappear  into  Mr.  Quilty's  till. 

His  expenditures  in  the  saloon  had  resulted  in  a 
trifling  economy  elsewhere.  He  was  no  longer  under 
the  necessity  of  paying  for  breakfast,  as  he  could 
swallow  no  food  till  mid-day. 

It  had  become  for  him  a  matter  of  course  to 
relapse  after  good  resolutions.  His  hours  of  con- 
tinence, grown  shorter,  now,  than  ever,  were  fraught 
with  apprehensions. 

The  sight  of  bars,  of  cafe  signs,  even  of  advertise- 
ments, in  the  trolley-cars  and  the  newspapers,  lauding 
an  especial  brand  of  whiskey,  were  to  him  all  sym- 
bols of  the  power  that  had  mastery  over  him.  He 
would  have  tried  to  flee  them;  he  averted  his  eyes; 
but  they,  unavoidable,  like  a  hydra  in  a  nightmare, 
multiplied  about  him  at  his  every  turn:  on  dead 
walls,  in  glittering  windows,  overhead — at  night — in 
brilliant  signs  that  vanished  but  to  spring  forth 
immediately  against  the  stars,  or  above  doorways 
illumined  by  a  warm  radiance,  the  portals  of  which 
seemed  to  give  inward,  on  their  well-oiled  hinges,  at 
the  slightest  pressure,  as  do  the  mechanisms  of  pitfalls. 

Still,  in  the  depths  of  his  heart,  there  languished 
part  of  the  aspiration  of  his  early  youth,  which 


384  PREDESTINED 

inebriety  resuscitated.  His  surroundings  rendered 
vague,  his  decline  forgotten,  he  reproduced,  to  some 
extent,  old  ardors,  dreamed  of  recovery,  found  the 
thought  of  quick  reform  not  unreasonable.  Raising 
his  head,  to  cast  round  him  a  look  both  wavering 
and  proud,  he  bade  farewell  to  the  scenes  that  he 
was  enduring  "for  the  last  time."  Next  morning, 
however,  that  self-confidence  had  failed. 

When  he  went  out,  a  threnody  as  if  of  super- 
natural voices  dominated  the  noises  of  the  street, 
while  familiar  sounds  seemed  to  reach  him  from 
a  great  distance.  Pedestrians  floated  past  like 
shadows;  and  all  faces,  appearing  to  him  through 
a  sort  of  haze,  assumed  an  unnatural  aspect.  Was 
it  a  real  world  through  which  he  took  his  way,  or 
was  his  the  only  actual  personality  extant?  At 
times,  the  countenance  of  Emma,  now  difficult  to 
recall  in  its  entirety,  was  not  more  ambiguous  than 
the  visages  that  loomed  round  him. 

His  depression  relieved  by  his  morning  drinks  of 
brandy,  he  thought,  perhaps,  of  a  hilltop  spread  with 
flowers,  where  he  had  bade  farewell  to  happiness. 

Did  she  still  spend  part  of  her  summers  there? 
Then  the  garden  at  night,  the  hillside  at  sunset,  the 
narrow  roadway  through  the  woods  at  noon,  re- 
called to  her  a  dead  romance.  Did  she  travel? 
Then,  in  Swiss  valleys  and  before  antiquated  French 
chateaux,  she  missed  the  response  of  an  enthusiasm 
once  quick  to  complete  her  own.  Was  she  in  town  ? 
Then  she  found  sadness  inextricable  from  some  ball, 
and,  at  the  opera,  listened  to  familiar  arias  with  a  pang. 


NINA  385 

One  day,  while  reading  a  newspaper,  in  a  list  of 
guests  at  a  fashionable  assembly  he  found  her  name. 
She  was  in  New  York! 

Frequently,  thereafter,  when  similar  entertain- 
ments, scheduled  in  the  newspapers,  took  place 
uptown,  Felix  was  standing  in  a  vestibule  near  by. 

A  striped  canopy  extended  from  the  lintel  to  the 
curb,  where  a  tall  footman  reached  out  to  open  the 
doors  of  automobiles  as  they  glided  to  a  standstill. 
Beneath  the  arch  of  canvas  many  women,  cloaked  to 
the  ears,  showing  white  satin  boots,  with  diamonds 
flashing  in  their  coiffures,  appeared,  and  immediately 
vanished.  If  she  was  there,  he  did  not  recognize 
her.  When  all  had  entered,  he  turned  homeward. 
Rain  began  to  fall;  and  the  dog,  pattering  ahead, 
seemed  at  each  step  to  pierce,  with  elongated  legs, 
the  glistening  pavement. 

Mrs.  Snatt,  announcing  that  "a  gentleman  had 
called  to  see  him,"  produced  a  visiting  card  with  a 
dirty  thumb  mark  on  it. 

"Oliver  Corquill.     So  he  has  run  me  down!" 

Next  afternoon,  the  novelist  appeared  at  the 
boarding-house. 

He  made  no  remarks  about  Felix's  behavior  at 
their  last  meeting,  the  young  man's  disappearance 
from  Washington  Square,  or  the  means  by  which 
this  last  pursuit  had  been  consummated.  But,  after 
glancing  round  the  bedroom,  he  remarked: 

"A  very  snug,  secluded  little  nook,  I  should 
imagine,  for  literary  work." 

Felix's  cheeks  began  to  burn.     He  stared,  with  a 


386  PREDESTINED 

feeling  of  animosity,  at  the  celebrity,  who  wore 
underneath  an  overcoat  lined  with  sealskin  a  suit  of 
dark  brown  cheviot,  who  displayed,  above  patent 
leather  shoes,  stockings  of  brown  ribbed  silk,  and 
who  had  in  the  buttonhole  of  his  left  lapel  a  white 
carnation. 

"Spare  me  your  sarcasm!" 

Corquill  assumed  an  expression  of  surprise. 

"Why,  my  dear  fellow,  I  thought  that  I  was  falling 
in  with  your  ideas!  Isn't  this  retreat  your  deliber- 
ate choice?  What  else  can  one  suppose,  when  you 
conceal  yourself  from  friends  who  have  other  plans 
for  you,  when  you  refuse,  indeed,  the  most  excep- 
tional opportunities  to  effect  a  change?"  He  had 
received  a  letter  from  Pavin,  who  was  travelling  in 
Algeria. 

Felix  lowered  his  head. 

"It's  true:  I  must  cut  a  miserable  figure  before 
both  of  you!  But  it  wasn't  altogether  my  fault." 

"Well,  then,  I  must  remind  you  that  I  have  never 
yet  enjoyed  your  confidence." 

"What  use  would  it  serve  to  recount  a  history  of 
errors?" 

"When  two  become  allies,  both  must  know  the 
characteristics  of  an  enemy,  to  attack  him  with 
success." 

An  ally!  Was  it,  indeed,  in  such  a  guise  that 
Corquill,  his  sealskin  coat-tails  flapping,  his  white 
carnation  an  oriflamme,  sallied  into  an  all  but 
stricken  field? 

They  dined  together,  in  a  restaurant  near  Union 


NINA  387 

Square.  Corquill  made  no  objection  to  a  bottle  of 
champagne,  or  to  entering,  afterward,  a  cafe  in  the 
neighborhood.  The  young  man,  his  reserve  abol- 
ished, finally,  by  his  potations,  talked  of  himself. 

Once  started,  Felix  did  not  find  it  difficult  to  re- 
late his  troubles.  He  felt,  indeed,  in  his  parade  of 
past  experiences,  a  sensation  that  had  something  in 
common  with  the  relief  of  a  wrong-doer,  too  weak 
to  rectify  his  misdemeanors  alone,  who  whispers 
through  the  grille  of  a  confessional.  Some  of  the 
blame  seemed  to  fall  from  his  offences,  when  two 
minds  shared  the  knowledge  of  them. 

The  other,  turning  his  glass  continually  between 
his  fingers,  listened  with  impassive  face.  His  first 
comment  was: 

"It's  a  puzzle!" 

And,  after  a  minute's  thought, 

"Our  friend  Wickit,  the  lawyer,  was  thoroughly 
conversant  with  your  family's  affairs?" 

"Of  course.    What  then?" 

Apparently,  Corquill  did  not  hear  that  question. 
At  last,  staring  at  the  table-top,  he  pronounced: 

"There  is  an  answer  to  everything." 

They  left  the  cafe.  In  Union  Square,  lamps  shed 
their  yellow  rays  upon  expanses  of  white  snow, 
which  were  transected  by  black,  asphalt  paths. 
Near  a  circular  fountain,  on  a  wooden  bench,  a  man 
in  mean  clothes  was  leaning  forward,  his  head  lower 
than  his  body,  one  hand  resting  on  the  ground  to 
keep  him  from  toppling  over,  while,  with  a  little 
piece  of  ice,  he  traced  in  unsteady  fashion  upon 


388  PREDESTINED 

the  asphalt  some  disconnected  numerals.  The  two 
pedestrians  stopped.  The  stranger  slowly  raised  his 
head. 

His  thin,  white  face  was  covered  with  a  straggling 
beard,  half  black,  half  gray;  from  either  side  of  his 
delicate  nose  the  flesh  had  fallen  away;  and,  beneath 
brows  abnormally  projecting,  eyes  sunken  and  veiled 
in  shadows  regarded,  with  a  sort  of  mournful  blank- 
ness,  the  two  witnesses.  In  his  effort  to  straighten 
himself,  he  recoiled  violently  against  the  bench  back: 
his  hat  fell  off;  and  one  saw  a  bald  skull  shining, 
covered  with  protuberances. 

He  gazed  at  Corquill.  His  eyes  wandered  to 
Felix.  The  young  man  and  the  derelict  regarded 
each  other  solemnly.  At  last,  both  smiled. 

"What  are  you  making  there?"  asked  Felix,  in 
low  tones. 

"Pardon?11 

And  Felix,  staring  down  at  him  in  surprise,  re- 
peated his  inquiry  in  French. 

The  stranger  answered  naturally,  though  some- 
what thickly: 

"I  am  writing  figures  of  5,  that  look  like  wolves 
at  bay  in  the  forest,  and  figures  of  2,  that  make 
me  think  of  the  smile  of  Aphrodite,  and  figures  of 
4,  that  resemble  knights  in  German  armor  riding  to 
a  tourney." 

Abruptly  standing  up,  he  reeled.  The  young  man 
caught  him  by  the  arm. 

"Where  do  you  live?" 

The  other  fixed  his  shadowy  eyes  on  Felix. 


NINA  389 

"You  could  never  find  the  way." 

"On  the  contrary,  I  can  find  it  easily." 

"Twenty-seventh  Street,  then,  beyond  Sixth 
Avenue.  Is  it  far?" 

They  set  out  northward,  the  young  man  and  the 
derelict  proceeding  slowly,  arm  in  arm,  Corquill 
pacing  beside  them  silently. 

On  Twenty-seventh  Street,  beyond  Sixth  Avenue, 
they  entered  a  French  quarter.  The  windows  of 
little  shops  were  inscribed  with  the  legends:  "Coif- 
feur Fran$ais"  "Pharmacie  Franqaise"  "Manu- 
facture de  Tabac."  They  halted  before  a  four-story 
brown-stone  house  that  looked  as  if  it  were  sinking 
into  the  ground.  A  plumber's  shop  occupied  the 
basement;  all  the  windows  contained  old  shades  of 
dull  blue  cloth;  a  flight  of  thirteen  steps  ascended 
to  the  doorway,  which  was  sheltered  by  a  little  porch 
of  rusty  metal-work. 

"It  is  here,  is  it  not?" 

But  the  Frenchman,  rocking  on  the  young  man's 
arm,  was  peering  down  the  street,  westward,  toward 
a  bright,  low-hanging  star. 

"A  beacon  that,  for  its  lustre,  might  surmount 
the  Pharos,  guiding  in  the  painted  sails,  making 
clear,  on  the  long  jetty,  the  wilted  wreaths  of  revellers 
returning  home,  and  the  faces  of  Greek  women 
loitering  in  robes  of  painted  gauze.  A  beacon  that 
might  surmount,  for  us,  to-night,  the  Pharos!  But, 
alas,  no  Alexandria  underneath!"  His  face  sank 
forward.  Tears,  issuing  from  the  shadows  in  which 
lurked  his  eyes,  dripped  upon  the  ragged  beard. 


390  PREDESTINED 

The  door  above  them  opened.  In  the  hallway, 
loomed  a  female  figure,  of  formidable  proportions, 
wearing  a  species  of  dressing  gown  in  front  con- 
siderably shorter  than  in  back.  A  hoarse,  contralto 
voice  called  out,  with  a  menacing  accent: 

"Is  it  you,  at  last?" 

The  derelict,  developing  a  nimbleness  that  sur- 
prised his  escort,  scrambled  up  the  thirteen  steps. 
The  hallway  engulfed  him :  the  door  was  immediately 
slammed  shut. 

"One  might  pray,"  said  Corquill,  "never  to  know 
the  state  of  that  poor  devil." 

Felix,  the  blood  rushing  to  his  head,  turned  upon 
the  novelist,  with  curling  lip. 

"Save  your  pity!  As  for  you,  rest  assured  that 
you  will  never  become  like  him.  One  does  not 
exceed  his  own  mental  limitations!" 

Corquill  stood  motionless.  Then,  his  face  pale,  he 
made  the  other  a  bow,  presented  his  back,  departed. 


CHAPTER  XVIH 

ONE  afternoon  in  March,  Felix  found  himself 
ascending  the  thirteen  steps  of  the  dwelling  house  in 
West  Twenty-seventh  Street.  The  door — its  small 
pane  of  ground  glass  covered  with  an  iron  grating — 
was  opened  grudgingly  by  the  virago  who,  at  the 
time  of  Felix's  previous  expedition  thither,  had 
received  the  intoxicated  Frenchman. 

Unkempt,  extraordinarily  fat,  with  a  neck  of  sev- 
eral folds,  a  dingy  face,  and  black  mustaches,  she 
had,  nevertheless,  a  pair  of  brilliant  eyes,  provocative 
of  conjectures,  like  a  hint  of  bygone  splendor  dis- 
covered amid  ruins. 

After  scrutinizing  the  young  man  from  head  to 
foot,  she  assumed  a  promising  look. 

Felix,  asking  himself  what  excuse  he  had  for  that 
intrusion,  was  inclined  to  run  down  the  steps. 
However,  he  blurted  out: 

"The  gentleman  with  whom  I  came  here  the  other 
night — is  he  in?" 

Her  features  immediately  expressed  truculence. 

"What  gentleman?" 

Felix  attempted  to  recall  the  occasion  to  her. 
Perhaps  she  would  remember  the  dog  ?  He  pointed 
to  Pat,  who,  seated  on  the  topmost  step,  was  looking 
up  at  her  without  sympathy. 

391 


392  PREDESTINED 

"I  know  of  no  such  person,  Monsieur.  You  went 
somewhere  else." 

He  was  leaving,  when  she  detained  him. 

"Who  sent  you  here?"  she  inquired,  violently. 

Disconcerted,  Felix  fell  back  upon  the  truth.  He 
had  been  actuated  by  interest  in  a  stranger  who, 
during  the  brief  moments  of  a  chance  meeting,  had 
said  "some  remarkable  things."  He  had  to  con- 
fess an  anxiety  to  renew  that  acquaintance — no 
doubt  a  presumptuous  inclination.  "My  excuse, 
Madame,  is  the  allure  of  intellect.  But  that,  I  fear, 
is  scarcely  an  excuse  to  offer  others;  indeed,  it  no 
longer  seems  plausible  to  me." 

Then,  reflecting  that  there  could  hardly  be  need 
of  further  apologies  to  this  slattern,  he  straightened 
his  back,  raised  his  hat,  and  again  turned  away. 

Her  face  softened. 

"So  he  can  still  play  the  spendthrift?  Eh,  that  is 
a  Fortunatus's  purse  he  carries,  the  old  incorrigible! 
There,  pardon  me,  Monsieur:  we  all  have  our  buga- 
boos. He  is  across  the  street,  in  the  cafe"." 

Directly  opposite,  a  small  dram  shop,  painted 
yellow,  seemed,  with  its  squat  bay-windows  bulging 
outward,  to  be  succumbing  gradually  beneath  the 
weight  of  a  four-story  building.  A  plate-glass  pane 
displayed,  in  letters  of  white  enamel,  the  informa- 
tion, "Cafe  de  la  Patrie." 

The  cafe  ceiling,  long  and  narrow,  covered  with 
sheets  of  stamped  metal,  hung  low:  owing  to  this, 
and  to  the  dull  hue  of  the  walls,  the  place  was 
shadowy.  On  the  right,  extended  a  row  of  tables- 


NINA  393 

on  the  left,  the  bar  presented  its  worn  woodwork 
and  perforated  brass  beer  tray.  No  customers  were 
visible. 

"Monsieur  desires " 

It  was  the  bartender,  or,  rather,  the  proprietor. 
A  plump  little  fellow,  with  white  hair  parted  in  the 
middle,  and  gaining  jauntiness  from  a  dyed  and 
waxed  mustache,  he  looked  as  if  some  one  had  just 
told  him  a  questionable  anecdote.  This  was  his 
habitual  expression. 

He  directed  Felix  to  the  rear  of  the  cafe". 

There,  two  pool  tables,  one  behind  the  other, 
announced  their  past  popularity  by  the  raggedness 
of  their  pockets,  and  the  amount  of  sticking  plaster 
on  their  green  cloths.  Beyond  them,  a  diffuse 
light  entered  between  iron  bars — through  which  one 
saw  a  yard  replete  with  empty  bottles — and  pene- 
trated an  alcove  to  the  right,  there  to  make  poly- 
chromatic a  goblet  half  full  of  absinthe  and  water, 
to  touch  a  hand  as  narrow  and  of  nearly  as  cadaver- 
ous an  exility  as  the  hand  of  an  Egyptian  mummy, 
and  to  set  shining  a  bald  head,  large  and  lumpy, 
raised  above  a  copy  of  the  Messager  des  Etats-Unis. 
The  newspaper  sank  from  before  the  pale  counte- 
nance, the  straggling  beard,  and  the  sunken  eyes 
surrounded  by  wide  circles,  that  had  remained  in 
Felix's  thoughts. 

Again  he  was  inclined  to  make  his  escape.  But, 
while  saying  to  himself,  "What  a  ridiculous  proceed- 
ing," he  advanced. 

"Monsieur  has  forgotten  me?    We  returned  to- 


394  PREDESTINED 

gether  to  his  house,  one  evening  not  long  ago.  The 
Pharos  was  illuminated." 

The  stranger,  after  taking  thought,  smiled  apa- 
thetically. 

"I  do  not  remember.  So  the  Pharos  was  illu- 
minated?" 

His  voice,  high  and  unsteady,  drifted  into  a  half 
hysteric  laugh.  Then,  apparently  in  an  access  of 
curiosity,  peering  at  the  other,  he  said,  nervously: 

"Sit  down,  Monsieur." 

They  drank,  that  afternoon,  half  a  dozen  glasses 
of  absinthe  together;  and,  since  Felix  then  had  his 
first  experience  with  tobacco  of  Algerian  manufact- 
ure, they  consumed  between  them  as  many  packets 
of  cigarettes. 

The  other,  it  seemed,  was  a  Parisian.  They 
talked  of  Paris — of  the  boulevards,  the  buildings,  and 
that  indefinable  "soul"  which  distinguishes  a  city  no 
less  than  a  human  being,  and  which,  at  recollection, 
brings  to  the  wanderer  a  nostalgia  not  unlike  a  long- 
ing to  perceive  again  the  charms  of  a  once  beloved 
individual.  But  Felix's  companion,  to  whom  few 
corners  of  the  earth  were  unfamiliar,  had  not  seen 
Paris  for  many  years.  Spots  named  by  him  stirred 
no  memories  in  the  mind  of  the  young  man,  who, 
for  his  part,  alluded  frequently  to  resorts  and  insti- 
tutions that  had  sprung  up  since  the  Frenchman's 
day.  So,  from  time  to  time,  they  fell  silent,  both 
touched,  no  doubt,  by  the  sadness  which  the  disap- 
pearance of  old  landmarks  causes — to  those  who  re- 
member them,  and  to  those  who  have  not  known  them. 


NINA  395 

The  elder,  however,  disclosed  some  compensating 
reminiscences. 

He  led  the  way,  as  it  were,  out  of  the  dram  shop 
in  West  Twenty-seventh  Street — where  twilight  was 
creeping  through  the  window  bars — and  into  a  region 
of  constricted,  tortuous  alleys,  of  old,  rickety  houses 
with  mansard  roofs  and  many  chimney  pots,  of  oriels, 
carved  by  workmen  of  the  seventeenth  century, ,  that 
adjoined  blank  walls  made  bright  with  frivolous  bill 
boards  advertising  public  balls  at  the  "Mabille," 
of  mediaeval  dormer  windows  overlooking  butcher 
shops  where  grisettes  in  their  dressing  sacks  came 
yawning  to  buy  a  chicken  wing — in  short,  to  that 
traditional  district  seething,  once  upon  a  time,  from 
cobble-stones  to  attics,  with  artistic  ardors,  icon- 
oclastic frenzies,  licentiousness,  and  momentary  pro- 
digality, in  recalling  which  old  men  say  sadly,  "The 
Latin  Quarter  is  no  more." 

And  the  cafes!  Their  doors  opened:  straightway 
appeared  the  long  mirrors,  the  white-topped  tables, 
the  garnet-colored  plush  of  their  settees;  and, 
through  a  mist,  one  saw  characters  with  unconven- 
tional beards  and  flowing  bows,  the  pioneers  of 
asstheticisms  once  new,  but  now  discarded,  leaning 
forward  in  all  the  febrile  poses  deemed  necessary 
for  the  synthesis  of  artificial  lives. 

But  Felix  was  not  used  to  drinking  absinthe  in 
such  quantities,  and  his  expectance  of  a  singular 
result  from  it  induced  intoxication  rapidly.  The 
pictures  conjured  up  by  his  companion  gradually 
faded;  the  sound  of  a  high-pitched  monologue 


396  PREDESTINED 

reached  him  but  at  intervals;  and  he  woke,  next 
day,  in  his  own  bed,  ignorant  of  the  episodes  which 
had  terminated  the  adventure. 

Relishing  this  taste  of  congenial  history  decanted 
at  first  hand,  he  returned  to  the  Cafe  de  la  Patrie 
for  a  deeper  draught. 

The  proprietor  informed  him  that  the  Parisian 
had  not  yet  arrived.  "It  took  an  old  fellow  of  his 
sort  some  time,  every  day,  to  find  his  legs." 

He  was  called  Monsieur  Pierre.  For  two  years — 
in  fact,  ever  since  the  virago's  appearance  in  Twenty- 
seventh  Street — he  had  been  "a  fixture"  across  the 
way.  It  was  the  general  impression  that  he  got  his 
spending  money  from  this  Mme.  Wargla,  whose 
name,  the  proprietor  admitted,  was,  at  least,  not 
French.  She  took  in  lodgers;  but  such  was  her  tem- 
per that  she  often  deluged  with  abuse  a  stranger 
who  rang  her  door-bell. 

"And  yet,  he  is  a  highly  educated  man?  He  has 
seen  the  world.  He  has  known  interesting  per- 
sons." 

The  cafe  keeper  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"Who  knows?    He  has  been  somebody,  maybe?" 

Nowadays,  however,  it  was  an  "off  night"  for  him 
if  he  got  up  the  thirteen  steps  without  assistance. 

The  clock  struck  four.  They  fell  silent.  A 
hand,  narrow  and  fleshless,  trembled  against  the 
door;  and  Monsieur  Pierre,  his  eyes  blank  of  all 
expression,  feebly  entered  the  cafe.  He  had  come 
for  his  "resuscitation." 

Felix  had,  at  first,  some  difficulty  in  identifying 


NINA  397 

himself.  But  a  gleam  of  intelligence  appeared  in 
the  absinthe  drinker's  wandering  orbs. 

"Ah!  ah!  It  is  you?  You  have  come  back,  then? 
In  the  alcove,  eh?  We  shall  be  very  comfortable. 
More  comfortable  than  in  my  house,  where  there 
happens  to  be  no  room." 

The  proprietor  accentuated  his  habitual  expres- 
sion. 

Felix  became  familiar  with  the  shadowy  resort, 
with  the  street  full  of  foreign  signs  and  faces,  even 
with  the  establishment  of  Mme.  Wargla,  whither  he 
sometimes  went  when  the  "diverting  old  type"  did 
not  appear  on  time  in  the  cafe. 

In  this  house,  the  staircases  and  the  floors  of 
gloomy  corridors  were  covered  with  oilcloth;  doors 
creaked  on  their  hinges;  steps  resounded  on  the 
landings;  then  there  brushed  past  a  man  with  a 
smooth-shaven,  oily  face  and  the  aspect  of  a  waiter 
off  duty,  or  a  woman  with  a  fringe  of  hair,  dark 
and  heavy,  falling  over  her  brow  beneath  headgear 
of  singular  style.  Monsieur  Pierre  issued,  at  an 
infirm  gait,  into  the  hallway,  hid  his  bald  scalp 
beneath  a  black  felt  hat,  and  straightway  accom- 
panied his  visitor  across  the  street. 

Between  these  two  grew  up,  presently,  a  species  of 
regard — in  the  younger  engendered  by  a  feeling 
that  here,  beneath  depravation,  existed  a  congenial 
spirit,  in  the  elder  roused,  possibly,  by  the  realiza- 
tion that  he  had,  at  last,  company  in  his  intellectual 
ramblings.  It  was  when  Felix  succeeded  in  follow- 
ing him,  one  night,  into  the  half-discovered  country 


398  PREDESTINED 

of  Greek  criticism,  that  Monsieur  Pierre  made  no 
bones  of  embracing  the  other  in  French  fashion,  with 
the  words: 

"My  dear  Pierce!  There  is  an  oasis  in  every 
desert,  after  all!" 

That  was  his  pronunciation  of  the  young  man's 
name. 

They  had  their  own  corner — the  alcove  near  the 
back  window.  Many  patrons  of  the  cafe,  inured  to 
that  Anglo-Saxon  mode  of  drinking  devised  as  if  for 
a  greater  benefit  to  liquor  sellers,  stood  at  the  bar, 
their  attitudes  conducive  to  a  restlessness  which 
bore  fruit  in  orders  more  frequent  than  if  suggested 
by  a  natural  desire.  Others,  in  their  shirt  sleeves, 
played  pool  upon  the  lacerated  baize.  In  a  corner, 
usually,  sat  an  octogenarian  with  a  fringe  of  fluffy, 
white  whiskers  round  his  chin,  his  glass  of  absinthe 
at  hand,  and,  at  his  feet,  a  brown,  mongrel  dog  so  old, 
and  of  a  mien  so  wretched,  that  Pat  was  evidently 
ashamed  to  bite  him.  After  finishing  his  drink,  the 
ancient  folded  his  hands,  let  his  head  sink  forward, 
and  took  a  nap.  A  shaft  of  ruddy  light  crept  up  his 
neck  and  seemed  to  set  fire  to  his  whiskers :  the  sun- 
set, in  fact,  had  even  thrust  a  little  of  its  glory  into 
the  back  yard.  There,  above  the  piles  of  empty  bot- 
tles, a  small  ailantus  tree,  its  pinnated  leaves  anod, 
heralded,  with  a  rank  odor,  the  advent  of  spring. 

They  talked  of  spring  in  Paris.  But  Felix  would 
say,  presently: 

"Let  us  talk,  rather,  of  the  Cafe"  Francois  Premier." 

It  was  there  that  the  artists  and  the  men  of  let- 


NINA  399 

ters  had  gathered,  three  decades  before.  Monsieur 
Pierre  could  recall  their  faces,  their  mannerisms, 
their  discussions — the  combats  of  the  impressionists 
and  the  conservatives,  the  wars  of  stippled  paint 
against  square  brush  strokes,  the  derision  in  which 
the  realistic  novel  writers  held  the  naturalists,  then 
the  manias  for  symbolism,  for  diabolism,  for  ghastli- 
ness,  for  anything  that  could  shock  by  its  novelty 
that  democracy  which,  in  art,  "is  always  reaction- 
ary." Or  one  was  transported  to  studios  of  a  bizarre 
complexion,  where  painters,  poets,  and  women  whose 
faces  reappeared,  thereafter,  on  the  walls  of  the 
Luxembourg,  sat  listening  to  the  sighing  of  a  violon- 
cello played  by  a  musician  whose  work  no  public 
would  accept.  And,  afterward,  "What  colors  did 
the  sounds  of  different  musical  instruments  call  to 
mind?  What  hue  had  the  vowels?  Was  Friday 
violet,  and  Sunday  yellow?" 

"And  among  all  these,  Monsieur  Pierre,  you,  too, 
played  your  part?" 

"My  part  was  quickly  played,"  the  other  re- 
sponded with  his  hysterical  laugh. 

But  he  had  known,  among  that  assembly  of 
Parisians,  Afro-French,  and  Belgians,  Villiers  de 
PIsle  Adam,  and  Mallarme,  the  wistful  and  evasive 
symbolist,  Catulle  Mende*s,  and  De  Banville,  who 
sang  just  because  he  loved  the  sound  of  limpid  voca- 
bles, Leconte  de  Lisle,  and  that  reincarnation  of 
Franyois  Villon,  Verlaine. 

Drinking  off  his  absinthe,  Monsieur  Pierre  burst 
forth,  with  a  wild  manner,  into  some  poem  by 


400  PREDESTINED 

He*re"dia;  and  his  listener  gazed  on  a  brazen  world, 
on  caravans  splashed  with  ochre,  seen  through 
quivering  air,  on  a  mirage  of  crumbling  mosques, 
and  on  green  moonlight  drained  through  palm 
leaves  into  a  pool. 

"Buron  should  have  been  among  these,"  thought 
Felix,  and  asked  his  companion  if  he  knew  that 
writer.  The  other  set  down  his  glass. 

"You  know  him?    You  have  read  him ?" 

And,  after  a  pause,  smoothing  his  beard  with 
trembling  fingers,  he  replied,  in  his  cracked  voice: 

"No!  About  that  fellow,  I  have  nothing  to  say! 
He  played  me  many  a  dirty  trick.  In  truth,  he  was 
an  enemy  of  mine." 

If  he  could  not  be  brought  to  criticise  that  one, 
he  was  quick  enough,  when  his  intelligence  had  been 
sufficiently  revived  by  liquor,  to  bestow  praise  or 
blame  on  others. 

"Baudelaire?  Yes,  always  sitting  alone,  at  mid- 
night, with  a  theatric  sneer  on  his  face,  methodically 
dropping  into  an  ice-cold  crystal  cup  a  venom  that 
is  going  to  poison  no  one.  Gautier  and  Zola,  the 
two  extremities  of  human  endeavor — the  Mona  Lisa 
and  an  old,  dirty  woman  by  a  copyist,  in  imitation  of 
Franz  Hals.  Coppee?  Why,  one  night  he  seduced 
Romance  up  to  the  Butte  Montmartre  and  there 
stabbed  her  in  an  alley.  Hugo!  He  reminds  me 
of  a  well-trained  Russian  artisan  who  has  set  him- 
self the  task  of  covering,  with  every  color,  in  every 
formal  combination,  the  walls  of  a  building  a  hun- 
dred times  the  size  of  St.  Basil's  Church  in  Moscow." 


NINA  401 

Then  he  would  stop,  his  head  would  droop  for- 
ward, and  his  beard  would  rest  on  the  soiled  frill  of 
his  shirt.  He  would  mutter: 

"After  all,  what  difference?  We  are  all  sitting 
together  in  a  dark  room,  blindfolded,  waiting,  and, 
while  waiting,  stringing  chaplets.  Suddenly  we  fear 
these  are  not  pearls  that  we  are  stringing,  but  beads  I 
We  have  a  moment  of  anguish;  to  reassure  our- 
selves, we  snatch  at  the  string.  The  string  breaks, 
the  beads  patter  upon  the  ground.  But  we  grovel 
for  them;  we  bruise  our  fingers  searching  for  them: 
among  them  there  may  be  a  pearl!'  This  one?  Ah, 
to  see,  to  make  sure!  But  a  hand  falls  upon  our 
shoulder.  It  is  that  for  which  we  have  been  waiting. 
One  must  rise  quickly,  at  that  touch.  'Drop  your 
chaplet.  Follow  me.'  And  we  follow.  Whither? 
Who  knows  ?  As  we  go,  we  hear  the  rest  moving  in 
the  dark,  and  the  industrious  clicking  of  chaplets, 
and  voices  saying  proudly,  'Mine  are  pearls,'  and 
other  voices  moaning,  'Mine  are  beads.'" 

He  would  fall  silent,  with  his  cadaverous  hands 
spread  out  on  the  table-top. 

At  other  times,  when  in  the  act  of  losing  contact 
with  objective  things,  he  showed  more  spirit. 

To  the  hallucinations  gathering  round  him  he 
stretched  out  his  arms,  with  a  smile  at  once  vacant 
and  cunning,  as  if  he  were  escaping,  at  the  cost 
of  reason,  an  unsatisfactory  world.  Sometimes,  at 
night,  finding  himself  in  such  a  condition,  he  insisted 
upon  a  promenade. 

Resting  his  pointed  shoulder  against  Felix,  he 


402  PREDESTINED 

swayed  through  dark  streets,  in  plebeian  parts  of 
town,  which  were,  for  him,  the  purlieus  of  regions 
antipodal  and  ancient.  "It  is  not  far,  now,  to  the 
gardens  of  Naucratis,"  or,  "We  are  nearly  there: 
one  can  catch  the  sound  of  Phrygian  flutes,  and 
smell  incense,  ambergris,  and  camphor." 

Felix,  on  hearing  such  speeches,  all  delivered  with 
an  accent  of  conviction,  felt  a  thrill  throughout  his 
body;  and,  focusing  his  swimming  senses  on  those 
thoughts,  himself  was  able  to  respond  in  the  same 
vein.  For  had  not  the  commonplace  and  the  monot- 
onous been  swept  away,  so  that  desires  previously 
grievous  because  no  longer  satiable  seemed  more 
imminent  than  reality? 

"Yes,  we  are  nearly  there.  Courage;  we  will 
reach  that  place  together!" 

And,  arm  in  arm,  they  wandered  at  random 
through  the  darkness,  striving  to  find  the  unattain- 
able. 

But  the  awakening  was  different. 

From  the  depths,  Felix  raised  his  eyes,  to  see  far 
above  him,  as  it  were,  a  goddess  of  the  heavens,  a 
Madonna.  Her  unalterable  aloofness  clothed  her  in 
some  of  that  vague  splendor  which  is  divinity's  chief 
allure  for  the  imaginative  worshipper.  Indeed,  he 
found  it  impossible,  finally,  to  think  of  her  as  being 
like  other  women:  his  association  with  her  had  been 
too  nearly  idyllic  to  facilitate  comparisons;  and  so 
far  had  the  whole  period  receded,  that  he  was  moved, 
occasionally,  when  more  distraught  than  usual,  to 
question  its  reality. 


NINA  403 

But,  not  infrequently,  at  thought  of  her  his  fever 
was  abated,  his  agitation  ceased,  he  held  himself 
motionless,  saying,  "I  will  put  away  all  this  stress, 
and  sit  down  to  the  thought,  'She  has  loved  me." 
He  was  soothed  immediately,  and  went  on  contem- 
plating, in  tranquil  happiness,  the  attachment  of  a 
bygone  time,  which  now  had  for  him  a  charm  so 
tender. 

This  satisfaction  was  often  able  to  pierce  his  most 
profound  melancholy. 

Still,  in  those  hours,  now  rare,  when  his  brain 
resumed  exercises  wholly  rational,  a  cynicism,  ex- 
haled like  an  acrid  vapor  from  all  the  sentimental 
ferment  that  he  had  endured,  threatened  to  corrode 
his  idol.  In  his  career,  contact  had  always  prefaced 
disillusionment.  What  if  her  well-nigh  ethereal 
singularity  were  visible  only  from  afar,  as  is  the 
remote,  half  phantasmal  vista  of  a  landscape  which, 
at  one's  approach,  resolves  itself  into  a  scene  resem- 
bling many  others? 

He  tried  to  drive  this  thought  away;  but,  in  the 
manner  of  every  thought  that  he  endeavored  to  ex- 
clude, it  returned  to  pain  him.  And  his  heart 
cried  out,  "Must  I  lose  my  last  ideal?" 

One  evening,  when  he  came  home  with  such  feel- 
ings, he  met,  in  the  vestibule,  Mr.  Quilty's  new  wife, 
tastefully  dressed.  She  had  called,  as  it  transpired 
afterward,  to  tell  Mrs.  Snatt  some  news  that  would 
have  gained  in  detail  by  a  delay. 

They  scrutinized  each  other.    Felix  reflected: 

"So  you  have  found  the  happy  ending!" 


404  PREDESTINED 

He  made  an  effort  to  compliment  her. 

"You  look  very  young  to-night.  Your  little  step- 
daughters will  have  in  you  an  elder  sister.  They 
must  adore  you  already.  How  is  Quilty,  by  the 
way?" 

"That's  so:  he  mentioned  the  fact  that  you  rarely 
go  there  now."  She  added,  in  a  whisper,  "How 
glad  I  was  to  hear  it!"  And,  looking  down,  she 
confessed : 

"I  think  I  shall  end  by  persuading  him  to  sell  his 
business." 

"Do  you  know,"  said  Felix,  "that  I  divined  your 
nature  long  ago,  up  there?  Every  time  I  saw  you 
in  those  surroundings  I  felt  surprise.  My  intuition 
didn't  play  me  false  in  your  case,  at  any  rate." 

They  were  silent,  both  thinking,  no  doubt,  of  the 
same  woman. 

Presently,  he  ventured: 

"Do  you  ever  hear  of  her?" 

"Now  and  then." 

Montmorrissy's  extravaganza,  "Poor  Pierrette," 
had  been  a  failure  at  the  Trocadero  Theatre:  Marie 
Sinjon,  in  the  opinion  of  the  critics,  was  not  "up  to" 
the  Broadway  standard.  She  had  retired  from  the 
stage.  Noon  had  married  her;  and,  as  he  was  in  a 
serious  way  from  nervous  debility,  they  were  travel- 
ling, by  automobile,  through  northern  Europe. 

"She,  too,  has  her  desire!" 

He  entered  the  boarding-house.  A  sound  of 
angry  voices  reached  him  from  the  "ground  floor 
rear."  Through  an  open  doorway,  he  saw  Mrs. 


NINA  405 

Snatt  and  her  husband  engaged  in  one  of  their 
altercations. 

Felix  paused  on  the  staircase,  to  contemplate  this 
picture. 

The  drummer,  with  his  dyed  side  whiskers  and 
inflamed  face,  looking  not  unlike  an  undersized 
Spanish  brigand  in  a  red  mask,  sat  rolling  up  his 
eyes  in  an  attempt  to  draw  from  his  wife's  purse  by 
pathos  the  money  that  he  would  demand,  when 
drunker,  with  artificial  sternness.  She,  towering  in 
a  wrapper,  with  curl  papers  sticking  out  round  her 
brow,  compressed  her  indistinct  lips  and  bade  her 
spouse  defiance,  In  a  corner,  Jennie,  hugging  the 
doll  with  taffy-colored  curls,  sat  apathetically  at 
gaze;  by  the  window,  the  boy,  his  large  head  bent, 
was  examining  his  fingers  as  if  he  had  never  pre- 
viously seen  them;  the  baby,  in  a  short  dress,  was 
crawling  with  a  jolly  air  over  a  carpet  full  of  large 
green  and  crimson  flowers. 

Mr.  Snatt,  attempting  to  gulp  down  his  grief, 
stammered : 

"Nothing  but  cruelty  and  harshness  ...  a  man 
ain't  never  understood  by  his  wife  .  .  .  what  a 
curse,  this  artistic  temperament!" 

Fixing  her  with  his  watery  eyes,  he  sighed: 

"It  won't  be  long,  now!  You'll  feel  sorry,  maybe, 
when  they  fish  me  out  of  the  river,  to-morrow 
morning." 

"Oh,  no  such  luck!"  was  the  retort. 

He  relapsed  into  silence.  A  baneful  expression 
appeared,  presently,  on  his  splotched  visage.  When 
the  baby  crawled  toward  his  feet,  he  shouted: 


406  PREDESTINED 

"Take  that  brat  away!  I  have  nothing  to  do 
with  him,  d'you  hear?" 

Mrs.  Snatt  turned,  with  twitching  face,  to  look  at 
her  other  offspring.  The  words  burst  from  her : 

" That's  why  he's  healthy!" 

And,  her  bosom  heaving,  she  came  forward  to 
close  the  door. 

Next  day,  she  asked  Felix  "if  he  could  conven- 
iently pay  up  his  back  rent." 

His  scenarios  for  the  kinetoscope  were  no  longer 
accepted  with  enthusiasm.  He  had  exhausted  all  the 
conventional  situations.  Besides,  the  manufacturer 
of  moving  pictures  now  wanted  "comic  skits — jaw- 
breakers." But  Felix  was  in  no  state  of  mind  to 
invent  laughable  episodes. 

Though  desperate  for  a  more  lucrative  employ- 
ment, he  was  incapable  of  working  steadily.  With 
the  utmost  travail,  he  finished  a  page  or  two  of 
writing,  then  considered  that  he  had  earned  a  rest. 
Finding  his  room  a  prison,  and  every  necessary  act 
a  burden,  he  did  not  touch  his  pen  till  confronted  by 
the  most  pressing  need  of  money.  Still,  the  twilight 
of  day  deliberately  wasted  was  a  melancholy  hour! 

Perhaps  he  might  be  able  to  write  a  new  sketch 
for  the  Delaclaires? 

The  Thespian  regarded  this  idea  favorably.  He 
and  his  wife  had  dragged  their  old  farce  across  the 
boards  of  vaudeville  theatres  so  long,  that  generally, 
when  they  appeared,  the  audience,  recognizing  them 
with  a  hum  of  resignation,  settled  back  to  doze. 
There  were  even  managers  "so  dead  to  art"  as  to 


NINA  407 

refuse  the  couple  further  booking  until  they  had 
"freshened  up  their  act." 

Felix  sat  through  several  performances  in  a  Four- 
teenth Street  theatre,  for  the  purpose  of  studying 
their  requirements. 

Into  a  rococo  boudoir — or  whatever  other  interior 
"set"  came  handy — Mrs.  Delaclaire  precipitated 
her  large  person,  wearing  a  low-neck  dress  that  caved 
in  just  below  the  bosom. 

She  announced  that  "she  didn't  know  what  to  do!" 
A  gentleman  whom  she  had  engaged  as  "leading 
man  in  her  new  tragedy"  had  failed  to  appear. 
Meanwhile,  she  would,  at  least,  rehearse  a  song  or 
two.  "A  song  or  two"  was  the  cue  for  the  piano- 
player,  lolling  in  the  orchestra  pit. 

Encouraged  by  him,  Mrs.  Delaclaire  essayed  a 
ballad  about  "colleens,"  "the  gate  below  the 
meadows"  and  "the  Irish  moon,"  concluding  with 
the  ear-piercing  asseveration,  "He  will  come  back!" 

Thereupon,  a  crash  of  glass  was  heard,  and  Mr. 
Delaclaire  entered,  looking  behind  him,  in  the 
costume  of  a  messenger  boy. 

When  he  had  explained  facetiously  that  he  was  in 
the  wrong  house,  he  espied  a  piano  in  a  corner. 
/"Would  she  play  a  jig  for  him?"  "What,  was  he  a 
disciple  of  Terpsichore?"  "Hold  on!  The  lady  had 
no  right  to  call  him  names!"  "But  if  he  could 
dance,  possibly  he  could  act?"  "Acting  was  his 
greatest  pleasure."  "How  fortunate!  What  a  coin- 
cidence!" He  took  his  place,  and  they  gave  a 
parody  of  "Uncle  Tom's  Cabin."  Then,  when  Mrs. 


4o8  PREDESTINED 

Delaclaire  had  performed  the  sleep-walking  scene 
from  "Macbeth,"  and  Mr.  Delaclaire  had  moaned 
forth  a  recitation  entitled,  "The  Old  Actor,"  they 
finished  in  front  of  a  drop  curtain,  with  a  lively  song 
and  dance,  to  disappear  glistening  with  perspiration. 

The  Thespian  suggested  that  Felix  "dash  off"  a 
more  serious  composition — a  piece  in  which  he 
could  wear  evening  dress,  create  an  atmosphere  of 
wealth,  say  something  about  "other  days,"  and 
recover  the  affections  of  a  lady  who  had  the  fashion- 
able world  fawning  at  her  feet.  "You  ought  to  be 
able  to  do  that  sort  of  stuff,"  was  Delaclaire's  con- 
clusion, with  a  sidelong  glance.  Then,  rubbing  his 
bristly  chin  reflectively,  he  exclaimed: 

"I'll  tell  you  the  style!  Have  you  seen  a  sketch 
called,  'His  Past'?  It's  made  no  end  of  money  on 
the  vaudeville  circuit.  A  dame  named  Nuncheon 
wrote  it  about  a  lot  of  swells." 

Sometimes,  arrayed  in  rumpled  pajamas,  he 
entered  Felix's  room  before  the  young  man  was 
awake:  in  the  night  he  had  "thought  up  an  inci- 
dent that  ought  to  go  into  that  sketch."  His  mind 
relieved  of  those  lucubrations,  the  Thespian  filled 
the  other's  pipe,  sat  down  on  the  counterpane,  and 
spoke  of  Eddie,  his  son.  The  boy  had  not  come 
home  to  sleep.  Moreover,  though  nothing  was 
missing  from  the  Delaclaires'  apartments,  he  had 
been  seen  by  Miss  Vinnie  Vatelle  going  into  a  pawn- 
shop. 

The  soubrette  had  returned  to  town  with  the 
spring  flowers.  She  was  playing  a  short  engage* 


NINA  409 

ment  in  the  Bon  Ton  Music  Hall,  on  Eighth  Avenue. 
Applause  clattered  round  her  when,  in  a  pink  dress 
reaching  to  the  knees,  pink  stockings,  and  gilt 
dancing  shoes,  she  uttered  the  refrain: 

"I  don't  care  if  she  has  yellow  hair 

Or  hair  of  darkest  black; 
I'll  take  it  red,  piled  upon  her  head, 

Or  hanging  down  her  back; 
I  can  be  true  to  eyes  of  blue, 

Or  eyes  of  gray  or  brown: 
I'm  not  hard  to  suit,  you  see, 
For  it's  all  the  same  to  me 

If  she  just  hails  from  New  York  town." 

Her  room  in  the  boarding-house  was  overflowing 
with  souvenirs  of  her  successes.  The  walls  were 
covered  with  photographs  of  Miss  Vatelle  in  every 
variety  of  coiffure,  in  every  sort  of  costume  ranging 
between  the  poles  of  children's  dresses  and  tights. 
Bright-colored  post-cards,  scrawled  over  by  waggish 
Correspondents  with  all  sorts  of  pleasantries,  filled 
wire  racks ;  the  mirror  had  a  border  of  visiting  cards, 
newspaper  clippings,  and  envelopes  bearing  curious 
addresses;  on  the  bureau  top,  amid  rouge  brushes, 
powder  boxes,  pots  of  cold  cream,  false  curls,  hair- 
pins, soiled  handkerchiefs,  and  broken  combs,  two 
elderly  faces,  one  male,  the  other  female,  surveyed, 
with  a  look  of  bovine  self-complacency,  their  environ- 
ment. It  was  a  portrait  of  the  soubrette's  parents. 

To  the  young  man,  there  was  an  interesting  art- 
lessness  about  her.  Living  for  the  most  part  in  a 
sphere  of  thin  dressing-room  walls,  sleeping  cars, 


410  PREDESTINED 

and  hotel  accommodations  sometimes  verging,  neces- 
sarily, on  promiscuity,  she  had  forgotten  many  of  the 
strictures  set  upon  conversation  in  circles  more  con- 
ventional. Her  confidences  were,  occasionally,  as 
generous  as  if  Felix  had  been  an  intimate  relative: 
her  facial  expression,  however,  so  neutralized  her 
words  that  one  could  not  easily  find  in  the  latter 
anything  immoderate.  On  concluding  tales  of  the 
provincial  hotel  clerk,  "the  baby  that  died,"  and 
"the  hard  luck  that  a  poor  girl  is  born  to,"  she 
looked  at  him  mournfully  from  under  her  pow- 
dered lashes,  with  her  mouth  relaxed,  and  a  few 
brown  freckles  showing  through  the  "make-up"  on 
her  short,  thick  nose.  He  got  used  to  her  perfume, 
no  longer  remarked  her  soiled  shoe  tops,  and  more 
than  once  forgot  entirely  his  earlier  impression  of  her. 

There  was  little  to  choose  between  his  mental  and 
his  physical  deterioration.  He  ate  at  irregular  hours, 
without  ever  feeling  hunger.  Now  and  then,  on 
approaching  a  mirror,  he  did  not  immediately  recog- 
nize his  face.  He  had  continually  a  nervous  agita- 
tion near  the  solar  plexus;  sudden  noises  made  him 
start;  his  eyelids  twitched  by  the  hour;  and  it  was 
not  unusual  for  him  to  make  his  bed  upon  the  floor, 
because  of  a  horror,  that  seized  him  as  he  fell  asleep, 
of  falling  into  an  abyss. 

His  distress  was  accentuated  whenever  he  "went 
broke."  He  understood,  finally,  the  impulse  which 
drives  footpads  to  their  business. 

Mr.  Pandle,  meeting  him  in  Union  Square,  on 
such  a  night,  listened  attentively  to  a  rambling  plaint. 


NINA  411 

Then,  raising  one  of  his  imitation  eyebrows  signifi- 
cantly, he  inquired  if  Felix  would  care  "to  take  a 
car  ride." 

"What  for?    Besides,  I  have  the  dog  with  me." 

"All  the  better.  We  get  on;  the  conductor  ob- 
jects to  him;  we  get  off  again.  There's  the  Twenty- 
third  Street  crosstown  line,  for  instance.  It  catches 
a  good  transfer  crowd  at  Broadway — theatre-goers 
from  the  suburbs." 

Felix  turned  cold.  He  had  an  impulse  to  dash  his 
fist  into  the  other's  face.  But,  after  all,  he  did  no 
more  than  turn  on  his  heel. 

Nevertheless,  a  few  nights  later,  when  he  saw  a 
stranger  drop  something  in  a  deserted  street,  Felix 
halted,  then  stealthily  advanced,  picked  up  a  wallet, 
made  his  escape.  In  his  room,  breathlessly  he  ex- 
amined his  find.  It  was  worn  out,  and  empty. 

One  afternoon,  while  he  was  sitting  at  home, 
racking  his  brains  for  some  way  to  get  money,  a 
knock  sounded  on  the  door.  It  was  Monsieur 
Pierre,  who,  wondering  at  the  young  man's  recent 
neglect  of  him,  had  made  the  journey  from  West 
Twenty-seventh  Street.  He  fell  into  a  chair,  ex- 
hausted. 

"You  see,"  he  gasped,  passing  a  handkerchief 
over  his  lumpy  brow,  on  which  the  veins  stood  out 
in  knots,  "thus  we  must  gratify  the  habits  we  ac- 
quire. It  is  lonely  over  there,  these  days,  in  the 
Cafe  de  la  Patrie." 

He  soon  rose,  and  began  to  move  round  the 
room. 


412  PREDESTINED 

"So  you  live  here,  eh?"  he  inquired,  with  an 
almost  foolish  chuckle.  "Not  bad,  not  bad!  Have 
you  cigarettes?" 

Standing  by  the  bureau,  he  picked  up,  with  his 
shaking  fingers,  the  photograph  of  Felix's  mother. 

"Who  is  this?" 

When  he  had  gazed  long  and  earnestly  at  that 
portrait,  he  laid  it  gently  in  its  place.  Smoothing 
his  beard,  he  wandered  from  before  the  bureau. 

"How  do  you  spell  your  name?"  he  enunciated 
carefully. 

Felix,  with  a  smile,  informed  him. 

"Ah!" 

The  Frenchman,  having  reached  the  door,  stood 
still,  as  if  in  a  daze. 

"How  old  are  you?" 

"Thirty." 

"Where  were  you  born?" 

"In  Paris." 

An  expression  of  fright  was  stamped  upon  the  ab- 
sinthe drinker's  face.  He  stumbled  out  into  the 
corridor. 

"What  an  original!  No  doubt  he  is  going  to  ex- 
plore the  house!" 

But  when  Felix  went  to  look  for  him,  the  corridor 
was  empty,  and  the  street  door  stood  open. 

"Gone!  This  is  evidently  one  of  his  bad  days." 

The  same  evening,  Felix,  while  rummaging  a 
bureau  drawer  in  search  of  a  collar  not  broken  at 
the  edges,  found  a  cardboard  box  half  full  of  head- 
ache powders. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

FELIX,  on  his  next  visit  to  West  Twenty-seventh 
Street,  did  not  see  Monsieur  Pierre.  The  cafe* 
keeper  shrugged  his  shoulders.  Mme.  Wargla,  how- 
ever, invited  the  young  man  into  the  hallway.  There, 
holding  her  dressing-gown  together  at  the  neck  with 
a  plump,  dingy  hand,  she  scrutinized  the  caller 
earnestly. 

"He  is  not  able  to  receive  his  friends." 

"Then  he's  ill?" 

"He  is  always  ill.  Besides,  at  times  he  has  curi- 
ous notions.  -One  does  not  live  that  life — you  under- 
stand. We  pay,  hein?  As  the  saying  goes,  'each 
pleasure  costs  a  thousand  pains."1 

"You  quote  Francois  Villon,  Madame?"  cried 
Felix,  in  astonishment. 

Her  face  lost  some  of  its  churlishness,  as  she 
replied : 

"Eh,  like  all  the  young  and  well-favored,  you 
think  the  old  and  ugly  have  always  been  so.  When 
one  has  been  smothered  in  gold  dust  by  the  improvi- 
dent, a  grain  or  two  may  stick  long  afterward." 

But  a  bell  jangled,  and  she  went  to  hold  parley 
at  the  front  door. 

"Oui,  oui,  ouil    Entrez." 

There  entered  a  delicate-looking  youth  with  an 

413 


414 


PREDESTINED 


incipient  mustache  and  the  trace  of  a  bifurcated 
chin  beard.  On  seeing  another,  he  hesitated;  then, 
affecting  a  bold  air,  he  leaped  up  the  staircase. 
Mme.  Wargla  resumed  her  scrutiny  of  Felix. 

"How  comes  it  that  you  speak  French  so  well, 
Monsieur?" 

"That  language  has  always  interested  me." 

A  sound  of  creaking  boards  reached  them  from 
the  rear  end  of  the  corridor. 

"Well,  as  I  have  told  you  once,  he  is  able  to  see 
no  one !  What  more  can  I  say  ?  Are  you  satisfied  ? 
Good-by,  Monsieur!" 

And  she  slammed  the  front  door. 

A  week  later,  returning  to  West  Twenty-seventh 
Street  at  an  unusual  hour,  Felix  discovered  him  in 
the  alcove  of  the'  Cafe  de  la  Patrie.  Monsieur 
Pierre  set  down  his  half-empty  goblet,  as  the  other 
exclaimed: 

"My  dear  friend,  how  glad  I  am  to  see  you 
recovered!  Maybe  it  was  partly  selfish,  that  con- 
cern of  mine  ?  I  have  missed  our  expeditions  to  the 
Latin  Quarter,  our  evenings  in  the  Cafe  Francois 
Premier,  not  to  mention  our  association  with  Xenoph- 
anes  and  Empedocles." 

"I,  too,"  was  the  low  response. 

"But  we  shall  resume  those  hours?" 

The  Parisian  raised  timidly  his  large,  vague  eyes, 
which  seemed  about  to  overflow  into  their  encir- 
cling rings  of  reddish  brown. 

"Yes,  yes;  why  not?  By  all  means.  We  shall 
not  deprive  ourselves  of  that!" 


NINA  ,      415 

"Two  absinthes,"  called  Felix,  to  the  cafe*  keeper. 

So  their  companionship  was  resumed. 

Those  were  days  of  early  summer,  when  the  first 
intense  heat  brought  forth,  simultaneously  with  the 
geraniums  in  public  parks,  light-colored,  filmy 
dresses,  bright  parasols,  palm-leaf  fans,  and  straw 
hats  which  an  army  of  punctilious  toilers  had  not 
presumed  to  wear  until  the  day  appointed  by  some 
forgotten  arbiter  of  style.  In  fashionable  parts  of 
town  the  doorways  of  dwelling  houses  were  boarded 
over;  in  the  principal  thoroughfares,  trenches 
swarmed  with  Italian  laborers;  everywhere  dirt, 
pulverized  by  the  sunshine,  whirled  toward  the  cor- 
nices in  clouds;  and  the  fumes  of  sewer  gas  mingled 
with  street  smells  accentuated  by  the  humidity. 
Then,  round  the  Cafe  de  la  Patrie,  fat  foreigners 
appeared  without  coats,  in  wilted  collars,  bareheaded 
women  wheeled  perambulators  wherein  babies  rest- 
lessly kicked  up  their  naked  legs,  garbage  buckets 
remained  too  long  at  the  curb,  while  few  windows 
thereabouts  lacked  their  tableaux  of  dishabille  that 
bordered  on  indiscretion.  In  the  rear  of  the  cafe, 
an  intermittent  breeze  wafted  through  the  barred 
window  odors  of  sour  wine  lees  from  the  mass  of 
empty  bottles  in  the  yard;  and  the  ailantus  tree 
dipped  its  long  leaves  above  a  scabrous  wooden 
fence  which  radiated  too  effectively  the  prevailing 
warmth. 

They  sat  in  the  alcove,  smoking  cigarettes,  and 
staring  at  the  two  goblets.  The  sunlight,  stealing 
across  the  table  top,  finally  pierced  the  absinthe,  to 


4i6  PREDESTINED 

wake  in  that  fluid  a  soft,  nacreous  splendor.  There, 
straightway,  was  a  cup  glowing  with  fires  of  a  subtle 
and  unearthly  beauty — a  chalice  brimming  with 
enchantment.  Their  fingers  embraced  the  glass 
with  a  tenderness  almost  voluptuous;  the  bland 
concoction  trickled  down  their  throats:  and,  pres- 
ently, the  lustre  of  that  essence  seemed  shed  on  the 
surroundings — as  a  refulgence  from  the  Grail,  so 
one  is  told,  transfigured  the  dark  walls  of  its  hiding 
place. 

But  the  complexion  of  their  intercourse  had  un- 
dergone a  change. 

The  young  man  missed  that  sense  of  spiritual 
intimacy  which  had  first  attracted  him  to  the 
Parisian.  He  had  become  less  the  listener,  and 
more  the  talker;  his  revelations  of  temperament 
were  now  met  by  silence  more  often  than  by  con- 
currence; and  occasionally,  when  he  had  finished 
some  rambling  speech  about  "the  only  means 
whereby  the  inadequacy  of  the  actual  world  might 
be  evaded,"  a  silence  fell  between  them,  as  depress- 
ing as  if  freighted  with  an  enormous  sadness.  The 
elder,  passing  a  tremulous  hand  before  his  eyes, 
would  stammer: 

"Let  us  not  stay  here  any  longer." 

Thereupon,  to  Felix's  dissatisfaction,  they  would 
go  out,  to  walk  the  dusky  streets. 

Soon,  however,  Monsieur  Pierre,  who  had  been 
wont  on  other  evenings  so  swiftly  to  traverse  space, 
was  forced  to  a  standstill  by  exhaustion.  Under  an 
arc  lamp,  slowly  he  removed  his  black  felt  hat. 


NINA  417 

Large  drops  of  perspiration  trickled  down  his 
temples,  over  a  vermiculate  network  of  distended 
veins. 

"Lend  me  your  shoulder,  Fe*lix.  Let  us  turn 
back." 

And,  at  the  foot  of  Mme.  Wargla's  steps,  he  bade 
the  young  man  good-night. 

"You  are  going  home  now?" 

"I  suppose  so." 

"Good,  very  good.  Home  and  to  bed.  That  is 
the  best.  I,  too.  Au  revoir." 

"He  is  changed  since  his  illness,"  thought  Felix. 

But  once,  after  making  a  pretence  of  departure,  the 
young  man  stepped  into  a  doorway.  He  was  re- 
warded by  seeing  the  absinthe  drinker  descend  the 
thirteen  steps,  cross  the  street,  and  re-enter  the  cafe. 

"So  it's  a  trick!    He  is  tired  of  my  company?" 

He  determined  never  again  to  set  foot  in  the  Caf6 
de  la  Patrie. 

But  five  days  later,  the  Frenchman  accomplished 
the  journey  to  Felix's  abode. 

"What!"  he  ejaculated,  while  holding  fast  to  the 
door  jamb,  in  order  to  catch  his  breath.  "You  are 
up  and  about;  you  are  as  well  as  ever!  Then  it  is 
because  you  no  longer  find  anything  of  interest  over 
there." 

"On  the  contrary,  because  I  thought  that  you 
preferred  it  so." 

"Why?" 

Felix,  unwilling  to  confess  his  espionage,  replied: 

"An  impression  cannot  always  be  expressed." 


4l8  PREDESTINED 

At  these  words,  delivered  in  a  chilly  manner,  an 
agitation  seized  upon  the  Parisian.  Sitting  down  in 
the  nearest  chair,  he  mopped  his  head  distractedly 
with  a  handkerchief. 

"  M on  Dieu  I  Are  we  going  to  quarrel,  you  and  I  ?  " 

By  that  speech  the  young  man's  heart  was  imme- 
diately touched. 

" Forgive  me!  I  ask  nothing  better  than  to  con- 
tinue a  relationship  unique,  for  me,  in  this — that  it 
is  perfectly  congenial." 

' '  Embrassons  nous  I ' ' 

And  Monsieur  Pierre  would  not  be  denied  the 
satisfaction  of  saluting  Felix  with  a  kiss  on  either 
cheek. 

Thereafter,  he  returned  frequently  to  the  boarding- 
house  in  Thirteenth  Street. 

He  insisted  on  examining  every  article  that  the 
other  had  got  published.  Displaying  a  sort  of 
trepidation,  he  received  into  his  arms  the  books  of 
clippings,  the  sheaves  of  manuscript,  all  the  literary 
souvenirs  of  a  period  signalized  by  self-confidence. 
With  a  pile  of  torn  magazines  balanced  on  his  knees, 
he  deciphered,  word  by  word,  the  English  prose. 
Occasionally  he  paused,  with  a  look  as  if  he  himself 
had  accomplished  something  admirable. 

"Ah!  Ah!  There  is  a  thought,  charmingly  ex- 
pressed, that  I  have  not  met  before!" 

"Let  me  see  it  ....  Did  I  write  so  well?" 

"It  is  not  for  a  young  man  to  say  such  things!" 

The  Frenchman  approached  the  window.  There, 
standing  beside  the  bureau,  with  his  thin  shoulders 


NINA  419 

bent  forward,  he  gazed  out,  apparently,  on  the  back 
yards. 

He  haunted  Felix,  did  this  old  wreck  with  the 
crapulous  body  and  the  head  of  a  mystic  who  has 
lain  desiccating  for  centuries  in  Roman  catacombs. 
Invariably,  his  mournful  eyes  brightened  at  sight 
of  the  young  man ;  he  reached  out  a  hand  to  pat  the 
other's  arm;  he  assumed,  in  fact,  an  air  that  was  a 
caricature  of  the  paternal.  And,  in  the  paternal  man- 
ner, he  commenced  to  bestow  on  Felix  good  advice. 

But  the  words  "resolution,"  "continence,"  and 
"emancipation"  fell  inaptly  from  his  lips;  a  salu- 
tary philosophy,  which  he,  erstwhile  so  eloquent  in 
cynical  discourse,  developed  as  if  expressly  for  his 
companion's  benefit,  had  all  the  speciousness  of  a 
creed  promulgated  by  an  unbeliever;  a  quotation 
to  the  effect  that  "the  object  of  life  was,  after  all, 
the  education  of  the  will,"  obtained,  because  he 
uttered  it,  the  flavor  of  a  sorry  jest.  The  result 
of  all  the  Frenchman's  feeble  homilies  was  Felix's 
thought,  "If  he  is,  indeed,  sincere  in  this,  if,  thanks 
to  growing  intimacy,  one  has  finally  perceived  the 
secret  yearnings  of  his  soul,  what  a  mockery  is 
human  aspiration!" 

Nevertheless,  Monsieur  Pierre  continued  to  harp 
on  that  tune,  but  with  variations  somewhat  more 
practical. 

While  visiting  the  young  man,  he  ignored  all  sug- 
gestions that  they  sally  forth  to  "have  a  drink";  in 
the  Cafe  de  la  Patrie,  he  made  anything  a  pretext  to 
"take  the  air."  They  had  arguments,  in  tenor 


420  PREDESTINED 

verging  on  acerbity,  before  swinging  doors  of  glass; 
Felix  was  drawn  by  the  arm  past  many  a  saloon; 
when  a  cafe  sign  appeared  ahead,  Monsieur  Pierre, 
with  a  quivering  forefinger,  designated  some  inter- 
esting object  across  the  way.  But,  at  every  ap 
proach  to  dram  shops,  the  feet  of  both  began  to  lag ; 
two  pairs  of  eyes  turned  furtively  askance;  and  the 
appetent  expression  of  the  one  was  mirrored  in  the 
visage  of  the  other.  Thus  walking  the  streets — 
from  which,  because  of  these  pedestrians'  sobriety, 
all  interest  had  been  withdrawn — each  found,  no 
doubt,  the  other's  company  a  burden.  Felix,  for 
his  part,  was  bored,  exasperated,  and  disgusted,  so 
that  the  Parisian  had  to  endure  not  only  the  discom- 
fort of  desires  unappeased,  but  also  the  ill-nature  of  a 
cherished  comrade. 

Indeed,  excursions  of  this  sort  reduced  him  to 
a  pitiable  state.  Worn  out  by  unwonted  exercise, 
beside  himself  from  lack  of  customary  stimulation, 
rendered,  moreover,  half  imbecile  by  the  depression 
of  his  mind,  he  gave  in,  finally,  with  a  groan.  They 
retraced  their  steps  to  West  Twenty-seventh  Street. 
On  the  threshold  of  Mme.  Wargla's  house  Felix 
went  through  the  stale  burlesque  of  seeing  his  com- 
panion safe  indoors. 

"And  you,  Felix?" 

"Oh,  I,  like  you,  am  for  bed." 

The  absinthe  drinker,  rallying  for  a  last  effort  his 
expiring  will,  made  his  appeal  in  broken  accents: 

"Come,  while  I  believe  you,  something  might 
happen;  so  let  us  make  sure.  Let  us  swear  a  little 


NINA  421 

oath  together,  eh?  Even  by  our  hope  of  heaven, 
by  all  saintly  intercessors,  by  the  Virgin  ?  No,  one 
breaks  such  oaths  too  easily.  By  what?  Tiens, 
you  will  swear  to  me  by  the  memory  of  Madame 
your  mother?" 

"My  poor  friend,  I  have  no  memory  of  my 
mother." 

Then,  as  Monsieur  Pierre  continued  to  stare  at 
him,  he  added,  with  a  return  of  gentleness: 

"Rest  assured,  I  shall  go  straight  home." 

He  no  longer  waited  in  a  near-by  doorway,  so  con- 
fident was  he  that,  when  his  back  was  turned,  the 
Parisian  would  scramble  down  the  steps  and  make 
for  the  Cafe  de  la  Patrie. 

"He  means  well  enough:  it  is,  of  course,  a  proof 
that  he  is  fond  of  me.  But  as  if  such  f hocus  pocus 
could  effect  what  I  have  tried  so  desperately  to 
accomplish!" 

One  night,  after  such  a  departure,  having  got 
himself  thoroughly  intoxicated  elsewhere,  he  wan- 
dered back  to  West  Twenty-seventh  Street.  In  the 
alcove  of  the  cafe,  he  found  Monsieur  Pierre  enjoy- 
ing a  condition  at  least  no  less  elevated  than  his  own. 

When  the  Frenchman  had  succeeded  in  focusing 
his  gaze  upon  the  new  arrival,  he  gave  vent  to  a 
vacant  laugh. 

"You  are  late!  Where  have  you  been,  all  day? 
Have  you  ever  seen  the  treasure  house  of  the  Sas- 
sanian  kings,  in  the  heart  of  an  unknown  jungle, 
split  open  to  the  moon?  There  rubies  and  em- 
eralds speak  to  one  another  of  the  secret  sins  of 


422  PREDESTINED 

long-dead  begums;  square  sapphires  that  have 
mirrored  the  eyes  of  monarchs  devour  with  their 
scintillations,  still  thus  infected,  the  white  skins  of 
pearls  that  peris  wore;  the  topaz  and  the  chrys- 
oprase,  the  diamond  and  the  chalcedony,  once 
learned,  through  many  centuries,  in  marble  pavilions 
inlaid  with  arabesques  of  pietra  dura,  a  variant  of 
royal  procreation:  their  spawn  is  a  blended  miracle 
of  light— but,  over  all,  there  hovers  to  this  day  a 
mist  of  blood."  While  speaking,  he  was  looking 
out  through  the  window,  to  where  moonshine,  pass- 
ing between  the  leaves  of  the  ailantus  tree,  glinted 
on  the  heaps  of  empty  bottles. 

From  materials  apparently  as  slight  they  could 
construct,  at  such  moments,  the  fabric  of  their  most 
entrancing  dreams.  A  street,  a  building,  a  figure,  a 
chain  of  arc  lamps,  or  a  fall  of  shadows,  suggested, 
then,  a  picture  wholly  strange  and,  in  suggesting  it, 
produced  it.  As  each  visionary,  moreover,  sure  of 
comprehension,  immediately  related  his  perceptions 
to  the  other,  in  nearly  every  scene  developed  by  the 
overtaxed  imagination  of  either  they  were  able  to 
participate. 

That  night,  under  cover  of  an  opalescent  haze, 
places  familiar  to  them  turned  extraordinary;  forms 
took  mysterious  shapes  about  them;  the  air  of  other 
worlds  caressed  their  faces.  The  street  lights 
changed  readily  to  flaming  cressets;  the  windows 
one  and  all  unrolled  long  draperies  of  cloth  of  gold; 
and  over  pavements  deep  with  flowers  moved  capar- 
isoned chargers,  heralds  blowing  fanfares,  and,  after 


NINA  423 

them,  pell-mell,  a  river  of  damask,  steel,  precious 
stones,  chiselled  ivory,  and  velvet  banners,  amid 
which,  in  a  white  hand  heavy  with  ecclesiastical 
finger  rings,  quivered  the  Golden  Rose.  The  pair 
doffed  their  hats,  with  mocking  smiles,  to  a  caval- 
cade of  work-horses,  bound  for  sale,  rope  halters 
round  their  jaws,  and  ragged  stable  boys  astride 
their  backs. 

So  it  was  Rome:  the  Borgias'  palace  blazed  with 
light;  robes  rushed  across  bridges;  blonde  damsels 
with  jewelled  foreheads  leaned  insidiously  from  case- 
ments, and  an  odor  of  musk  was  stirred  into  the  soft 
air  at  the  swift  passage  of  cardinals  tricked  out,  like 
revellers,  in  violet-colored  masks.  The  two,  rais- 
ing their  voices,  implored  the  casement  dwellers: 
"Maddalena!  Angelica!  Pomona!  Drop  down,  if 
not  the  key,  at  least  a  kiss!"  They  moved  on,  how- 
ever, when  threatened  with  an  appeal  to  the  police. 

It  was  Corinth:  the  salt  waves  lapped  the  prows 
of  Punic  galleys;  a  faint  murmur  issued  from  the 
Temple  of  Venus  Pandemos;  and,  on  the  windy 
quay,  one  wept  to  see  an  old  drunken  woman  turn 
up  a  face  which  had  belonged,  when  fair,  to  Lai's. 
"  Where  was  her  statue,  fashioned  by  Myron,"  they 
asked  her,  grinning  through  their  tears.  "What 
had  become  of  Diogenes  and  Aristippus?" — Nor 
did  they  cease  till  flooded  with  scurrility  in  a  dia- 
lect at  least  not  Corinthian. 

It  was  Troy:  and  Helen  was  in  yonder  "topless 
tower,"  gazing  out,  with  who  could  tell  what  reveries, 
toward  the  camp  fires  of  the  Greeks. 


424  PREDESTINED 

But  as  Papal  Rome  shredded  into  the  common- 
place, and  the  salt  breeze  swept  away  the  classic 
glamour  from  warehouses  and  moored  schooners,  so 
Helen's  tower,  when  approached  too  closely,  became 
a  "sky-scraper."  Perhaps  the  night  air  somewhat 
cleared,  at  last,  the  absinthe  drinker's  brain.  He 
muttered : 

"Reality  is  hanging  the  very  sky  in  mourning 
weeds,  against  the  burial  of  Romance.  Let  me,  too, 
be  buried,  as  a  figment  no  more  substantial."  And 
presently,  quoting  from  Empedocles: 

"'Men,  wrestling  through  a  little  space  of  life  that 
is  no  life,  whirled  off  like  a  vapor  by  a  quick  fate, 
flit  away.' " 

Then,  turning  up  his  eyes: 

"Yet  in  my  time,  I  have  lived  a  hundred  lives,  to 
discover  the  especial  thrill  of  each.  I  have  soared— 
ah,  and  I  have  fallen!  But  I  was  wrong  to  think 
that  I  had  sounded  every  depth." 

At  the  Frenchman's  door,  Mme.  Wargla,  roused  from 
slumber,  turned  on  Felix  with  the  ferocity  of  a  tigress. 

"So,  the  cafe  is  not  enough:  when  that  is  closed, 
you  must  drag  him  through  the  streets!  Look  at 
him,  now,  asleep  against  the  jamb!  Belle  affaire! 
His  clothes:  cristi,  what  a  mess!  And  he  who  was 
so  spick  and  span — no  Bohemian,  but  a  gentleman 
of  the  grand  world.  There,  poor  old  boy,  come 
in.  Didst  thou  find  out  who  cared  most  for  thee, 
in  the  end?  Thou  wilt  be  ill  enough  to-morrow. 
As  for  you,  Monsieur,  cut  your  stick!" 

Felix  found  his  way  home. 


NINA  425 

It  was  not  thought  that  Mrs.  Snatt's  boarding- 
house  could  last  much  longer.  Half  the  rooms  were 
empty,  while  most  of  the  lodgers  now  preferred  to 
eat  their  meals  elsewhere.  But  often,  in  the  even- 
ing, Mr.  Snatt's  snare-drum  could  be  heard  rattling 
downstairs.  He  was  remaining,  this  time,  evi- 
dently, to  play  the  dirge. 

One  morning,  Delia,  the  housemaid,  appeared 
before  Felix  with  a  frightened  look.  After  rubbing 
her  broken  shoes  together  in  embarrassment,  she 
managed  to  get  out  the  information  that  her  mistress 
had  an  opportunity,  which  she  could  not  afford  to 
lose,  to  rent  the  room.  As  he  owed,  at  that  time, 
for  five  weeks'  board,  the  young  man's  consternation 
was  quickly  followed  by  relief. 

The  Delaclaires  insisted  on  giving  him  a  "send- 
off."  A  delicatessen  shop  furnished  the  collation, 
which  was  composed  of  sardines,  Italian  sausage, 
rye  bread,  pickled  pigs'  feet,  Swiss  cheese,  and 
beer.  From  this  beverage,  Mrs.  Delaclaire  obtained 
a  certain  sentimentality:  her  bosom  heaved  above 
her  caved-in  corsets;  she  spoke,  in  moving  tones,  of 
"ties  made  but  to  be  broken,"  and  "auld  lang  syne." 
The  Thespian,  not  to  be  outdone,  recollected  a  few 
appropriate  quotations;  and,  at  the  last,  summon- 
ing to  his  assistance  a  melancholy  and  decrepit  look, 
declaimed,  with  that  intonation  called  a  dying  fall: 

"  Bid  me  farewell,  and  smile.     I  pray  you,  come. 
While  I  remain  above  the  ground,  you  shall 
Hear  from  me  still;   and  never  of  me  aught 
But  what  is  like  me  formerly." 


426  PREDESTINED 

Miss  Vinnie  Vatelle  was  unable  to  be  present  at 
that  ceremony.  The  soubrette  was  confined  to  her 
room  by  a  "sick  headache." 

Next  morning,  Mrs.  Snatt  came  out  of  the  "ground 
floor  rear"  to  bid  him  good-by.  Blushing,  she 
fixed  him  with  appealing  eyes.  Apparently,  in  her 
belief,  not  he,  but  she,  had  cause  to  plead  excuses. 

Felix  declared  that  he  would  not  forget  her. 

"At  the  earliest  possible  moment,  you  shall  have 
your  thirty  dollars." 

"It's  not  that.  But  we  can't  always  do  as  we 
would  like.  I'm  sorry.  You  sort  o'  gave  the  house 
a  tone." 

Jennie  even  insisted  on  a  kiss.  The  baby,  a 
marvel  of  intelligence  for  his  age,  achieved  the 
words  "Da — da!"  and  "Doggie!"  Willie,  his  large 
head  cocked,  stared  at  these  demonstrations  as  if 
some  mysterious  perfidy  were  going  on. 

From  the  end  of  the  street,  Felix,  looking  back, 
saw  Delia  on  the  doorstep.  Her  hair  was  in  wild 
confusion;  one  hand  shaded  her  eyes;  an  angular 
elbow  glinted  in  the  sunlight. 

He  went  to  a  hotel  in  Houston  Street — a  nine- 
story,  white-brick  structure  with  a  projecting  roof— 
which  an  altruist  had  built  for  the  decent  and  cheap 
accommodation  of  men. 

Marble  staircases  and  floors,  walls  of  white  tiling, 
elevators,  and  an  administration  bureau  fitted  out  in 
oak,  gave  the  young  man,  at  his  first  glance,  encour- 
agement. But  the  bedchambers,  each  furnished 
with  a  narrow  cot,  a  chair,  a  locker,  and  a  strip  of 


NINA  427 

rug,  were  small  as  cells;  the  dining-room  had  long 
tables  like  those  used  in  public  institutions;  and 
the  shower  baths  were  all  situated  downstairs.  A 
night's  lodging,  however,  could  be  obtained  for 
thirty  cents;  and  a  meal  was  elaborate  which  cost 
more  than  a  quarter  of  a  dollar.  On  the  other  hand, 
one  was  forbidden  to  occupy  his  room  from  nine 
in  the  morning  until  five  in  the  afternoon,  dogs  were 
excluded,  and  no  liquor  was  dispensed. 

Felix,  confiding  Pat,  every  night,  to  an  attendant 
in  the  basement,  remained  there  for  some  weeks: 
it  was  a  place  to  sleep.  In  courts,  nine  stories  high, 
white  and  glistening,  roofed  with  glass,  old  men  of 
boundless  leisure,  seated  at  square  tables,  played 
checkers  interminably;  in  the  library  on  the  second 
floor,  others  turned  languidly  the  pages  of  "Ivan- 
hoe"  or  "Lorna  Doone";  and  Felix,  when  entering 
the  lavatory  for  his  morning  bath,  often  saw  honest- 
looking  fellows  rinsing  undershirts  and  handker- 
chiefs at  stationary  washtubs  provided  for  that 
purpose. 

In  time,  the  restrictions  which  obtained  in  the 
hotel,  his  loneliness,  at  night,  for  Pat,  and  the  long 
faces  that  greeted  him  when  he  came  home  intoxi- 
cated, drove  Felix  to  seek  other  quarters.  He  in- 
habited hostelries  over  cafes,  where  the  carpets 
were  covered  with  spots,  the  window-curtains  torn, 
and  the  beds  dirty;  he  made  the  rounds  of  lodging- 
houses  "catering  to  a  transient  trade";  he  dealt 
with  hotel  proprietors  and  landladies  who  surrounded 
their  untidy  persons  with  an  atmosphere  of  mystery. 


428  PREDESTINED 

Those  were  domiciles  full  of  battered  furniture, 
broken  washstands,  door-knobs  quick  to  turn  in  the 
hands  of  strangers  who  had  "  mistaken  the  number." 
His  homeward  road  lay  through  streets  by  day  alive 
with  Jewish  clothing  makers,  fruit-laden  push  carts, 
Italian  brats,  " kosher"  restaurants — at  night  de- 
serted .save,  perhaps,  for  some  one  lurking  in  the 
shadow  of  an  entry,  a  policeman  on  his  beat,  or  a 
drab  skirt  disappearing  over  puddles.  He  had 
come  into  a  place  where  factories  squeezed  between 
their  walls  the  ramshackle  dwellings  of  an  earlier 
period,  where  street  lamps  seemed  to  burn  less 
brightly  than  elsewhere  and  the  windows  to  give 
forth  a  sheen  more  wan,  where,  high  over  excava- 
tions, there  remained  large  squares  of  wall-paper, 
pallid  in  moonlight — the  blanched  backgrounds  of 
forgotten  scenes  enacted  in  the  rooms  of  houses 
finally  razed. 

His  address  was  known  to  Monsieur  Pierre,  who 
sometimes,  smoothing  his  beard  in  agitation,  stam- 
mered : 

"I  do  not  ask  you  to  live  in  my  house." 

But  he  now  insisted  on  loaning  the  other  small 
amounts  of  money. 

Such  transactions,  at  first  made  difficult  by  a 
squeamishness  which  neither  wanted  to  exhibit,  soon 
became  easy.  It  was,  in  fact,  the  Parisian — at 
what  cost  to  his  self-indulgence  Felix  did  not  vent- 
ure to  surmise — who  kept  the  young  man's  head 
above  water. 

To   others    whom    he    chanced    to    meet,    Felix 


NINA  429 

answered  that  he  was  "living  with  some  friends 
uptown." 

On  Fourteenth  Street,  one  afternoon  in  October, 
at  a  stentorious  halloo  he  turned  to  see  the  Thespian, 
posing  beside  a  poster,  of  late  overlooked  by  the  bill- 
stickers,  that  portrayed  him.  They  shook  hands. 
Mr.  Delaclaire  remarked  that  Felix  looked  very  bad. 

Mrs.  Snatt,  it  seemed,  was  now  "on  her  last  legs." 
But  there  was  no  chance  of  the  ex-drummer  dying: 
"he  was  too  thoroughly  pickled."  "Such  fortunate 
situations,  my  dear  boy,  only  happen  on  the  stage." 

As  for  the  Delaclaires,  they  were,  just  for  the 
moment,  "at  liberty."  And  lowering  his  jowls  in  a 
regretful  manner  upon  a  frayed  cravat,  the  actor 
said: 

"By  the  way,  we  never  done  that  sketch!" 

"That's  true." 

Felix  changed  the  subject. 

"What  of  Vinnie?" 

"On  the  road  again.  Always  working!  A  nice 
little  thing,  don't  you  think  ?  She  used  to  talk  a  lot 
about  you,  after  you  left." 

"And  Edwin  Booth  Delaclaire?" 

Gloom  pervaded  the  Thespian's  Neronic  counte- 
nance. 

"That  boy  will  be  the  death  of  me!" 

He  had  even  been  arrested,  on  the  charge  of 
throwing  a  brick  through  a  jeweller's  window  as  a 
preliminary  to  stealing  some  gold-plated  watches. 
Though  the  blame  had  been  fastened  on  his  com- 
panions, the  youth  had  not  escaped  without  leaving 


430  PREDESTINED 

his  picture  in  the  "Rogues'  Gallery"  at  Police  Head- 
quarters. 

"You  understand?  It  makes  him  a  marked  man 
for  life.  If  only  there  was  a  way  to  get  it  out!" 

Felix  promised  to  petition  "a  friend  of  his  on  the 
force." 

With  this  in  mind,  he  took  the  trouble  to  wait  in 
Quilty's  saloon  for  the  detective.  The  saloon  keeper 
had  become  the  father  of  a  son.  He  asked  Felix 
what  college  was  the  best. 

Connla  came  in.  Pat's  condition  put  him,  at 
once,  in  a  bad  humor:  "He  had  never  seen  a  good 
bull-terrier  so  run  down!"  When  Felix  broached 
the  object  of  his  visit,  the  detective  answered: 

"Better  leave  that  boy  alone:  you'll  only  dirty 
your  fingers.  One  of  these  days,  he'll  be  wheeling 
a  barrow  full  of  rocks,  like  Pandle." 

Then,  sucking  his  teeth  reflectively,  he  added: 

"Yestiday,  I  seen  your  friend  the  dope  fiend  go- 
ing into  Chinatown.  Faith,  I  could  read  fine  print 
through  him!  He'll  not  see  the  winter  out,  and 
that's  the  truth." 

"So  near  the  end  of  his  rope,"  thought  Felix. 
"And  what  of  me?" 

Every  day,  he  advanced  farther  into  an  opacity 
which  hid,  as  it  were,  the  simultaneous  approach 
of  something  terrible.  A  feeling  of  material  un- 
reality had  so  increased  in  him  that  he  gazed  some- 
times at  his  hands  to  find  them  strange,  while  his 
voice  often  sounded  in  his  ears  as  if  issuing  from 
another's  lips.  The  city  had  become  a  place  of  half 


NINA  431 

a  dozen  familiar  points:  these,  shrouded. continually 
in  a  sort  of  mist,  no  longer  represented  anything 
important.  His  capacity  for  feeling,  when  in  his 
sober  senses,  delicate  or  deep  emotions,  seemed 
dead;  he  could  no  longer  call  forth  either  violent  or 
gentle  impulses;  his  thoughts  of  Nina  were  dis- 
tinguished only  by  sadness,  as  fleeting  as  the 
shadow  of  great  wings,  because  he  had  lost,  in  that 
respect,  the  power  to  evoke  a  sweet  regret.  It  was 
as  if  an  inner  intelligence  had  crumbled  there,  leav- 
ing no  more  than  a  fragile  shell.  This,  scarcely  able 
to  bear  the  most  trivial  frictions,  was  liable,  at  any 
hour,  to  disintegrate. 

One  afternoon,  early  in  November,  he  set  out,  by 
way  of  Sixth  Avenue,  for  the  Cafe  de  la  Patrie. 

It  was  a  day  of  lowering  clouds,  of  cold  winds,  of 
livid  window-panes  and  dejected  faces.  The  en- 
compassing depression  of  nature  penetrated  his 
heart:  how  desolate  the  world,  for  all  the  footfalls 
round  him! 

Those  footfalls  accompanied  his  own;  they  in- 
truded on  his  dejection;  when  he  listened  to  them, 
they  became  the  tread  of  a  multitude,  amid  which 
he  was  lost,  and  by  which  he  was  being  borne  along 
to  an  unknown  destination. 

He  raised  his  eyes  to  the  housetops. 

Tall,  dull  against  the  gloomy  sky,  slowly  they 
changed  their  altitudes  before  his  gaze:  those  in 
front  were  seen  to  rise,  and  those  behind  to  sink 
gradually  from  view.  It  was  a  descent.  The  mul- 
titude was  flowing,  like  a  stream,  down  hill. 


432  PREDESTINED 

It  flowed  past  columns  black  and  straight,  all 
alike,  interminably  reiterated.  From  time  to  time, 
a  sound  as  of  thunder  burst  forth  overhead,  at  which 
the  columns  seemed  to  shake,  as  do  tree  trunks  at 
the  breaking  of  a  storm.  Were  they  not,  indeed, 
tree  trunks?  They  had  that  aspect.  They  were 
innumerable  tree  trunks  gathering  on  the  outskirts 
of  a  forest  as  tenebrous  as  oblivion. 

Between  them  the  human  stream  continued  to 
flow  downward. 

He  examined  his  company. 

There  pressed  round  him  countless  wayfarers  with 
eyes  fixed  straight  ahead.  Save  for  their  rapt  ex- 
pressions, they  displayed  a  bewildering  dissimi- 
larity. 

Some  showed  through  tatters  their  emaciated 
flanks;  to  the  shoulders  of  others  hung  strips  of 
rotten  mail;  the  rags  of  sacerdotal  fillets  dangled 
over  the  transparent  temples  of  a  few;  and  amid 
naked  bodies,  both  tender  and  withered,  all  frail 
and  covered  with  old  scars,  appeared,  here  and 
there,  the  muddy  remnant  of  a  purple  robe.  Senile 
old  men  in  grave  clothes,  wearing  a  wreck  of  laurel 
leaves,  rested  their  weight  on  youths  whose  lips  were 
covered  with  a  green  froth  of  poison.  Blind  women, 
from  whose  necks  were  slipping  sacred  amulets,  sup- 
ported girls  with  bleeding  breasts,  their  cheeks  well 
nigh  washed  clear  of  paint  by  tears.  Fathers,  trans- 
fixed by  rusty  swords,  still  dragged  along  their  life- 
less children;  and  one  who  had  been,  perhaps,  a 
king  stumbled  onward,  though  decapitated,  hugging 


NINA  433 

against  his  breast  a  head  that  wore  a  crown  bereft 
of  all  its  jewels. 

Melancholy  murmurs,  sobs,  moans,  and  snuffling 
rose  from  this  host,  to  blend  in  a  diapason  like  the 
sea's.  He  knew,  at  last,  the  source  of  those  super- 
natural voices  which  had  long  haunted  him. 

But  the  shadows  deepened;  the  tree  trunks  were 
multiplied;  the  stream  had  penetrated  the  forest. 
And,  forthwith,  all  that  company,  with  brandished 
arms  and  heads  thrown  back,  melted,  by  a  hundred 
paths,  into  the  darkness. 

Running  forward,  he  cried: 

"Must  I  stay  here?" 

A  hand  dragged  him  back.  He  was  in  the  grasp 
of  a  tall  spectre,  decked  with  plates  of  silver,  but 
beneath  the  visor  of  whose  helmet  no  face  appeared. 

"They  have  all  left  me  here  alone!" 

"I'll  take  you  to  where  there's  lots  of  them," 
was  the  reply. 

He  fell  upon  this  guardian's  neck  with  tears  of 
gratitude. 

His  trust  was  not  ill  bestowed:  for  presently  the 
threnody  of  mournful  voices  fell  again  upon  his  ears. 

He  listened  to  tales  related  by  invisible  mourners — 
of  marriage  beds  covered  with  a  pall,  of  treasure 
trove  grasped  finally  by  the  dying,  of  love  that 
stood  smiling  beyond  an  abyss  perceived  too  late, 
of  diadems  from  which  the  fangs  of  snakes  whipped 
forth.  As  he  heard  these  various  accounts  of  baffled 
lives,  he  set  them  all  down,  word  by  word,  upon 
an  endless  scroll. 


434  PREDESTINED 

Once,  a  voice  reached  him: 

"This  is  an  interesting  case." 

And,  when  he  paused  in  his  labor,  he  was  asked: 

"Why  do  you  move  your  forefinger,  day  and 
night,  as  if  you  were  writing?" 

He  replied: 

"I  am  copying  everything  I  hear:  all  the  grief 
of  the  world  shall  be  in  my  pages.  Then  I  shall  burn 
the  book  at  the  foot  of  a  great  altar;  and  the  words 
shall  fly  up  like  little  flames,  to  warm  the  heart  of  an 
angelic  figure  that  sits  overhead.  But  if  I  am  sly 
enough  to  slip  my  own  grief  in  among  the  others,  it 
shall  fly  aloft  like  the  rest,  mingled  with  them;  and 
the  angelic  presence,  confused  by  so  many  flames, 
may  feel  for  me  also." 

His  questioner  laughed  gently. 

"An  educated  man  is  sometimes  able  to  get  up  a 
very  picturesque  D.  T." 

One  morning,  when  he  had  been  at  his  task  "for 
centuries,"  he  saw  above  him  a  ceiling  of  stamped 
metal  that  recalled  the  Cafe  de  la  Patrie.  He 
turned  his  head  on  a  pillow.  He  was  in  a  hospital. 

In  a  long  room  were  aligned  against  white  walls 
a  score  of  iron  beds,  all  occupied  by  men.  The 
rough  chins  of  these  invalids  were  upturned;  their 
ignoble  faces  were  flooded  by  the  sunshine,  and 
the  same  stupor  seemed  to  dull  every  pair  of  eyes. 
Here  and  there  moved  orderlies,  in  white  jackets 
and  black  trousers.  By  the  door,  a  physician — a 
bland  youth,  clad  in  a  suit  of  duck,  with  yellow 
hair  and  spectacles — was  pressing  the  point  of  a 


NINA  435 

hypodermic  syringe  into  the  shoulder  of  an  old, 
idiotic-looking  waif  who  leaned  forward,  on  his 
mattress,  in  a  sitting  posture. 

The  physician,  when  he  had  finished  the  opera- 
tion, came  over  to  Felix.  Seating  himself  on  the 
bed,  he  inquired,  with  an  amiable  grin: 

"How  do  you  find  yourself?" 

"Where  am  I?" 

"Well,  if  you  must  know,  in  the  alcoholic  ward." 

Felix  lowered  his  eyelids,  to  escape  the  other's  smile. 

"How  long  have  I  been  here?" 

"Three  days.  My  dear  fellow,  I  have  to  tell  you 
that  you've  had  a  serious  time.  You  are  full  to  the 
neck  with  bromides  and  ergot — so,  of  course,  you 
feel  depressed.  All  the  same,  I  take  this  opportu- 
nity to  read  you  a  lecture.  One  man  has  died  in 
this  room  since  you  came  into  it.  Perhaps  you 
would  not  have  got  off  so  easily  without  special  care. 
We  did  our  best  for  you.  To  be  frank,  patients  of 
your  class  don't  come  in  here  often." 

"Many  thanks,"  said  Felix,  with  an  effort.  "But 
when  shall  I  get  out?" 

1 '  To-morrow ,  probably. ? ' 

All  day,  he  lay  abed,  watching  his  neighbors. 

Their  large,  rough  hands,  spread  out  on  the 
coverlets,  twitched  from  time  to  time;  their  heavy 
eyes  rolled  slowly  in  discolored  sockets;  some  dis- 
played on  their  foreheads  the  violet-colored  marks 
of  blows,  and  a  negro  had  his  face  so  thoroughly 
bandaged  that  only  his  nose  and  mouth  appeared. 
From  between  their  restless  lips,  they  puffed  out, 


436  PREDESTINED 

occasionally,  low  exclamations,  incomprehensible 
phrases,  fragments  of  querulous  complaints.  Or 
else,  peering  intently  at  the  ceiling,  those  most  re- 
cently arrived  cried  out  in  fear;  and  one,  whose 
arms  and  legs  were  bound  to  his  bedstead,  expressed 
continually  a  belief  that  he  was  going  to  have  his 
throat  cut.  He  shrank  back,  with  the  look  of  an 
animal  at  bay,  whenever  an  orderly  approached 
him  carrying  a  hypodermic  syringe. 

At  nightfall,  their  condition  grew  worse. 

From  one  corner  rose  a  sound  of  weeping;  else- 
where an  unnatural  chuckle  was  repeated  at  inter- 
vals; sharp  ejaculations  resounded:  "Officer,  stop 
that  man ! ' '  "That's  how  they  killed  him ! "  "Your 
honor,  it  wasn't  me!"  "When  it  sticks  its  head 
out,  shoot  quick!"  "I  am  in  hell,"  thought  Felix, 
and  himself  began  to  sob.  The  young  physician 
injected  morphine  into  his  arm.  He  fell  asleep. 

Next  afternoon,  he  was  "discharged  as  cured." 

On  legs  that  bent  under  him  at  every  step,  he 
issued  into  the  sunlight.  A  large  rectangle  of  gray 
buildings  surrounded  him:  in  this  enclosure  stood 
some  leafless  trees;  and,  beyond  these,  on  iron 
galleries  rising  in  tiers  against  stone  walls,  one  saw 
convalescents  sitting  in  bed  gowns  of  faded  blue. 
To  the  right,  a  gate  appeared.  He  was  let  out,  by 
a  watchman,  into  the  street. 

A  white  bull-terrier  sprang  at  him  with  a  whine, 
and  Monsieur  Pierre  came  hurrying  forward. 

The  Parisian  did  nothing  save  wipe  his  eyes  and 
press  the  young  man's  arm. 


NINA  437 

"But,"  faltered  Felix,  trying  to  collect  his  senses, 
"how  did  you  find  me?" 

That  had  been  due  to  Pat.  Monsieur  Pierre, 
searching  everywhere  for  Felix,  making,  finally,  the 
rounds  of  all  the  hospitals,  had  found  the  dog  at 
this  gate.  Grimy,  half  starved,  and  fierce,  Pat  had 
attempted,  whenever  any  one  passed  in  or  out,  to 
penetrate  the  enclosure.  He  had  been  pelted  with 
stones;  and  when  the  Frenchman  arrived,  the  gate- 
keeper was  consulting  with  a  policeman  as  to  the 
advisability  of  putting  a  bullet  into  the  brute's  head. 

"I  took  him  home.  It  was  not  easy:  I  got  a  bite 
or  two.  But  he  was  fed — yes,  indeed,  on  the  best. 
And  ever  since,  we  have  come  here,  twice  a  day,  to 
wait." 

He  added,  in  beseeching  tones, 

"It  is  all  over  now,  is  it  not?  It  is  the  end  of 
all  that?" 

"Yes;  I  have  learned  my  lesson." 

"Let  us  pray  to  that  effect." 

The  hospital  was  situated  near  the  East  River. 
They  turned  westward,  and,  at  a  slow  pace,  passed 
between  tenements.  But  where  were  they  going? 

Not  to  the  cafe,  or  to  Mme.  Wargla's  house;  not 
to  Quilty's  saloon,  or  to  Felix's  mean  room! 

"Monsieur  Pierre,  I  am  grateful  for  your  solici- 
tude and  your  kindness  to  the  dog.  But  there  are 
times  when  one  should  be  alone.  Maybe  I  shall 
feel  better  in  Central  Park." 

The  other,  looking  down,  at  last  nodded. 

"You  are  right,  no  doubt." 


438  PREDESTINED 

Before  departing,  he  slipped  ten  dollars  into  the 
young  man's  hand. 

"Let  us  say  that  this  money  shall  now  come  to 
good  uses." 

And  he  shuffled  away,  with  his  hands  clasped 
behind  him,  and  his  black  felt  hat  tipped  forward. 

Felix  found  himself  too  weak  to  walk  uptown. 
His  dog,  however,  would  not  be  permitted  in  a 
trolley-car.  He  hailed  a  hansom  cab. 

The  cab  driver,  leaning  down  from  his  perch, 
inquired : 

"And  who's  to  pay  for  the  trip?" 

Without  animosity,  Felix  displayed  the  banknotes. 

At  Central  Park  West  and  Seventy-ninth  Street 
he  left  the  cab.  An  entrance  to  the  park  was  there. 
He  went  in. 

The  day  was  clear  and  cold.  The  sunshine  had 
never  been  more  brilliant. 


CHAPTER  XX 

AT  this  entrance  to  the  park,  a  path,  taking  up 
its  eastward  course,  crossed  a  bridge  with  granite 
parapets.  Beneath  the  arch  thus  formed,  some 
thirty  feet  below,  meandered  north  and  south  a 
bridle  path.  Felix  paused  by  the  northern  parapet 
to  look  down  at  the  equestrians. 

Now  and  then,  they  appeared  unexpectedly  below, 
on  bay  horses:  rising  clear  of  their  saddles,  they 
departed  rapidly  up  the  incline  of  the  perspective. 

A  hundred  yards  ahead,  the  gray  flow  of  the 
bridle  path  was  cut  in  twain  by  an  islet,  so  to  speak, 
of  twiggy  trees.  Behind,  extended  a  skyline,  pur- 
plish and  undulating,  of  commingled  branches. 

The  riders,  turning  to  the  right,  skirted  the  islet, 
to  vanish  amid  bare  thickets.  But,  on  the  left, 
others  came  swiftly  into  sight,  approached  at  a  trot, 
grew  larger.  Their  white  stocks,  and  the  bits  of 
their  steeds,  became  discernible;  their  faces  were 
soon  hidden  by  their  hats;  the  horses'  backs  were 
elongated;  the  cropped  tails  disappeared  beneath 
the  bridge. 

He  recalled  the  period  when  he  had  ridden  so 
with  Nina. 

For  the  first  time  in  many  months  the  tremor  of 
his  nerves  and  the  confusion  of  his  mind  had  ceased: 
as  he  gazed  through  air  that  seemed  more  limpid 

439 


440  PREDESTINED 

than  a  celestial  ether,  he  seemed  to  be  sinking  into 
absolute  serenity.  Round  him  a  horizon  of  soft 
tree  tops  supported  the  edges  of  a  flawless  sky:  the 
earth  commingled  with  the  heavens,  and  part  of  the 
golden  brilliancy  shed  upon  the  ground  floated 
upward  immediately  to  its  source.  How  beautiful 
this  world,  of  which  he  was  a  part!  Languidly  he 
closed  his  eyes,  the  better  to  appreciate  the  purity 
of  nature's  exhalation.  He  was  a  boy  again — the 
memory  of  past  transgressions  blurred,  so  that  there 
remained  to  him  only  a  vague  wonder  at  the  mystery 
of  the  sun,  of  the  whispering  grasses,  and  of  the 
answering  heart. 

Ah,  to  have  such  feelings  always,  always  to  have 
had  them!  He  remembered  well  the  spot  where  he 
had  parted  from  them. 

It  was  not  hard,  perhaps,  to  keep  the  heart  bright 
on  hilltops  where  sweet  breezes  blew,  and  flowers 
blossomed,  and  sunlit  vistas  stretched  far  away  to 
meet  the  sea? 

But  for  youth,  alas,  the  immaculateness  of  hill- 
tops did  not  suffice.  From  such  eminences  did  one 
not  glimpse,  at  a  twilight  that  was  like  all  other 
twilights  thereabouts,  a  distant  flash,  a  beacon 
burning  who  knew  where,  a  flame  "that  might  sur- 
mount for  one  the  Pharos?"  So  down  from  the 
summit,  in  the  gathering  darkness,  to  adventure  far, 
with  beating  heart — through  fields  and  cities,  past 
palaces  and  hovels,  till,  at  last,  lost  and  fainting  in 
black  alley-ways,  one  said:  "What  I  sought  was 
never  here;  but  it  was  always  there." 


NINA  441 

He  felt,  however,  no  acute  regret.  His  melan- 
choly was  so  calm  as  to  seem  to  him,  after  his  long 
turbulence,  pleasant.  It  was  enough  for  him  that 
he  had  regained,  from  abstinence  without  desire, 
from  sedative  medicines,  or  otherwise,  the  power  of 
extracting  enjoyment  from  the  slightest  materials. 
He  could  have  shed  tears,  in  weak  happiness,  at  the 
aspect  of  the  distant  skyline.  As  he  turned  from 
the  parapet,  he  paused  to  gaze  tenderly  at  the 
withered  petals  of  a  bush. 

He  descended  the  path  which  led  into  the  park. 

A  broad  driveway  appeared  before  him;  beyond, 
was  spread  out  a  lake.  The  water,  of  a  leaden  hue 
close  by,  soon  changed  to  a  steel  blue  that  joined, 
at  length,  in  soft  encroachments  overlaid  with  scin- 
tillations, the  olive-green  reflection  of  a  distant  shore. 
There  saplings,  which  began  to  rise  directly  from 
the  water's  edge,  were  gilded  by  the  declining  sun: 
in  their  upper  branches  was  caught  a  fulvous  haze; 
and  between  them  one  could  see  bare  earth — in 
color  a  rich  and  luminous  brown  where  not  transected 
by  long  shadows — sloping  upward  till  it  vanished 
reluctantly  behind  the  lowest  horizontal  limbs. 
Overhead,  the  eastern  sky,  too  mellow  to  be  blue, 
too  azure  to  be  yellow,  trembled  as  if  at  contempla- 
tion of  the  radiant  west. 

Crossing  the  driveway,  he  walked  north  until  he 
saw,  on  the  right,  a  wooden  bridge  that  spanned  a 
little  inlet  from  the  lake. 

The  banks  descended  abruptly ;  smooth  bowlders, 
half  immersed,  were  each  bound  round,  where  they 


442  PREDESTINED 

entered  the  water,  with  a  ribbon  of  moisture;  amid 
ripples,  some  swans  continued  to  turn  phlegmatically 
in  circles,  and  to  plunge  their  bills  toward  the  bot- 
tom. Two  or  three  men,  leaning  over  the  rail,  were 
watching  these  manoeuvres.  A  large,  dark  blue  auto- 
mobile, furnished  with  a  "limousine,"  stopped 
abruptly  in  the  driveway. 

But  the  bull-terrier,  at  sight  of  so  many  large  and 
obviously  succulent  fowls,  became  excited.  Felix 
called  him  on,  to  a  path  beyond  the  bridge.  It 
wound  up  a  hillside,  past  steep  rocks,  and  toward  a 
thickly  wooded  region. 

To  the  right,  overhead,  roots  projected  from  the 
summits  of  crags;  to  the  left,  the  tops  of  trees  were 
thrust  up  from  a  diminutive  valley.  Across  the 
path,  Australian  firs  let  down  their  clumps  of  russet 
needles;  a  birch,  perhaps,  sent  up  a  waving  white 
column,  and  the  way  was  lined  with  rhododendron 
bushes,  all  their  long  leaves  adroop.  These,  in  fact, 
continuing  ahead,  at  every  withdrawal  of  the  cliff 
spread  out  in  masses,  then  reappeared  above,  and, 
at  a  turn  of  the  path,  filled  the  middle  distance  with 
sun-drenched  undulations.  Farther  on,  where  many 
trees  swam  together  into  a  background  at  once  con- 
fused and  bright,  here  and  there  an  oak  or  a  beech 
had  retained  some  remnant  of  its  leafage,  to  disturb, 
with  flecks  of  ochre  and  burnt  umber,  a  fuscous 
monotone. 

Felix,  however,  discovered,  to  the  left,  a  sloping 
lawn  on  which  a  few  magnolias  showed  their  pale 
trunks  in  incipient  convolutions.  He  turned  aside; 


NINA  443 

though  nearly  exhausted,  he  began  to  climb  among 
the  rocks,  by  a  path  which  at  least  should  lead  to 
solitude.  Through  a  screen  of  rhododendron  leaves, 
he  saw  a  blue  dress  also  moving  upward,  though  by 
another  way.  The  bowlders  rose  on  either  side  of 
him,  to  form  a  rugged  pass. 

They  were  seal-colored  and  glossy,  but  overlaid 
with  patches  in  the  most  evasive  shades  of  green  and 
mauve;  they  were  dull  as  iron,  and  full  of  infinitesi- 
mal corrugations,  like  old  lava;  or,  all  at  once, 
becoming  rough,  they  were  covered  with  a  sheen  of 
mica.  They  composed  not  only  the  walls  of  this 
ascent,  but  the  footpath  also:  the  irregular  steps 
resembled  the  worn  bed  of  an  old  torrent.  And  it 
was  steep,  this  acclivity  between  rocks  so  high  that 
sunlight  no  more  than  touched  their  tops.  But 
above  the  shadows,  straight  ahead,  trees,  towering 
in  an  amber  mist,  marked  a  splendid  summit. 

Felix,  gasping  for  breath,  with  failing  limbs,  was 
actuated  by  an  irrational  determination  to  win  that 
goal.  The  crags  fell  away  on  either  hand;  a  tim- 
bered landscape  spread  out  below;  directly  before 
him,  a  woman  clad  in  blue  cloth  and  gray  fur  awaited 
his  approach. 

His  heart  leaped  into  his  throat. 

Inarticulate,  he  sank  down  upon  a  wooden  bench 
half  hidden  by  some  laurel  shrubs.  Nina,  advancing 
slowly,  seated  herself  likewise.  With  gloved  hands 
clasped  in  her  lap,  she  regarded  him. 

She  said: 

"How  you  have  changed!" 


444  PREDESTINED 

He  succeeded  in  replying: 

"And  you,  too." 

She  seemed  to  him  an  elder,  fairer,  consummate 
sister  of  her  former  self.  The  virginal  charms  which 
formerly  had  bestowed  on  her  a  somewhat  tenuous 
allure,  in  this  wife  and  mother  had  attained  luxuriant 
development.  Her  beauty,  indeed,  appeared  to  him 
more  complex  and  superb  than  that  of  a  marble 
image  clothed  in  gems:  a  thousand  solved  mysteries 
trembled  in  her  gaze;  and  the  familiar  perfume 
which  she  still  wore  was  more  moving  than  a  curtain 
of  frankincense  rising  before  a  sanctuary. 

But  he  saw  her  again;  she  had  approached  him 
of  her  free  will;  he  heard  her  voice!  What  fate 
was  to  be  thanked  for  this  encounter  ? 

Passing  in  her  automobile,  she  had  glimpsed  him 
watching  the  swans.  She  had  got  out  at  once,  had 
sent  the  automobile  home,  and,  following  him  up 
the  hillside,  had  deliberately  contrived  their  meeting. 
"So  much  time  had  passed;  one  should  not  hold 
animosity  forever;  besides,  even  from  a  distance  she 
had  noted  an  unhappy  alteration  in  him." 

He  thought  it  would  do  no  harm  to  say: 

"As  for  that,  I  have  just  left  the  hospital." 

He  was  rewarded  by  a  look  of  pity. 

"Tell  me  about  it." 

"It  is  not  worth  relating.  But  do  you  tell  me 
about  yourself,  if  you  are  willing."  He  was  aware, 
he  added,  of  her  marriage,  and  that  she  had  a  child; 
he  had  even  seen  her  portrait  by  Pavin,  whom  he  knew 
well.  She  showed  no  surprise  at  this  announcement. 


NINA  445 

They  still  kept  the  farm  in  Westchester  County. 
Denis  Droyt's  town  house  lay  just  east  of  Central 
Park.  They  had  often  travelled,  until  the  birth  of 
the  baby.  It  was  a  boy,  who  resembled  his  father. 
When  he  was  older,  no  doubt  they  would  start  off 
again,  returning  to  New  York  for  part  of  every 
winter  season. 

"In  short,"  Felix  ventured,  frightened  at  his 
audacity,  "much  the  sort  of  life  that  you  and  I 
once  planned." 

She  looked  down  at  her  clasped  hands.  A  pause 
ensued. 

"Tell  me,"  he  asked,  finally,  "who  was  it  that 
brought  you  word  of  me,  that  time  ?  A  man  named 
Fray?" 

"Mr.  Tamborlayne  wrote  a  letter  to  my  mother." 

He  felt  dizzy,  at  this  sudden  upheaval  of  an  old 
conviction. 

"How  little  we  know,  of  the  past  and  of  the 
future!" 

"That's  true,"  she  assented  in  a  low  voice,  her 
glance  flashing  over  him  from  head  to  foot.  Then 
the  dog  attracted  her  attention. 

He  came  to  her  readily.  His  jaws  wide  open,  his 
small,  triangular  eyes  beaming  with  good-nature,  he 
wagged  his  tail,  made  a  wriggling  motion,  and  sud- 
denly put  his  forepaws  on  her  lap.  She  did  not 
repulse  him. 

"It  is  Pat;  do  you  remember?  You  gave  him, 
to  me." 

"Is  it  he?    I  should  not  have  known  him." 


446  PREDESTINED 

And  leaning  forward,  passing  her  hands  over  the 
bull-terrier's  ragged  ears,  she  murmured,  with  a 
tremulous  smile: 

"So  many  scars!" 

Felix  watched  her  while  she  continued  those 
caresses,  with  fingers  deft,  as  he  remembered  well, 
to  soothe  and  pet  dumb  brutes. 

Her  blue  cloth  dress  was  plainly  made;  a  simple 
toque  of  blue  velvet  did  not  conceal  her  thick  brown 
hair;  round  her  neck,  and  brushing  her  ear  lobes, 
was  a  gray  fur  scarf.  But  each  part  of  her  attire 
was  informed  with  an  ineffable  importance;  a  holy 
mantle  could  not  have  been  more  significant  than 
the  fabrics  clothing  her:  her  slightest  movement 
swelled,  as  it  were,  the  costume  of  a  divinity. 

Looking  up,  she  surprised  an  expression  of  won- 
der on  his  face. 

"What  are  your  thoughts?"  she  inquired. 

"I  am  trying  to  convince  myself  that  it  is  you. 
This  is  the  sort  of  meeting  that  one  experiences  in 
dreams — a  scene  in  which  the  impossible  becomes 
natural,  a  situation  never  to  be  expected  in  reality. 
Then,  too,  I  find  in  you  a  marvellous  change.  Or 
perhaps  an  accumulation  of  past  thoughts  of  mine 
has  given  you  a  different  aspect?" 

Once  more  it  was  the  inevitable  duo — but  this 
time  in  a  form  how  rare,  how  plaintive,  how  well 
attuned  to  variations  in  a  minor  key! 

"When  we  had  our  falling  out,  you  thought,  I 
suppose,  that  we  could  never  be  farther  removed 
from  each  other?  But  ever  since,  I  have  been 


NINA  447 

widening  the  gulf  between  us.  You  stayed  on  the 
heights,  and  I  descended,  step  by  step,  into  the 
depths.  Your  world  remained  the  same,  but  mine, 
always  changing  for  the  worse,  became,  at  last,  a 
place  such  as  you  could  not  imagine.  So,  when 
you  meet  me  here,  of  your  own  accord,  I  recall  the 
angel  that  visited  the  pool." 

Perceiving  moisture  in  her  eyes,  he  was  filled 
with  a  profound  satisfaction.  He  felt  acutely  the 
dramatic  difference  between  them;  he  appreciated 
the  ideal  quality  of  their  surroundings;  he  saw 
in  himself  the  classic  prodigal  laying  bare  his  soul 
before  some  exquisite  personification  of  compassion. 
However,  the  poignant  touch  that  should  complete 
the  episode  was  lacking.  He  furnished  it. 

"Yet  I  have  always  struggled!  An  intuition,  per- 
haps of  moral  origin,  warned  me  of  every  pitfall: 
I  hung  back;  but  an  irresistible  force  invariably 
drove  me  forward.  And  if  that  first  transgression 
brought  me,  from  the  beginning,  only  misery,  so  it 
has  been  with  all  the  rest.  Still,  I  could  gain  nothing 
from  experience.  While  yearning  for  the  best,  I 
had  to  choose  the  worst.  I  was  like  a  man  who 
staggers  out  of  a  fire  only  to  be  thrust  back  into 
the  flames  by  an  invisible  hand.  It  was  fate,  that 
predestined  for  me  a  life  of  failure." 

She  replied,  softly: 

"Some  time  ago  I  ceased  to  blame  you." 

Presently,  she  went  on: 

"  Do  you  remember  old  Joseph  ?  He  is  still  with 
me,  very  feeble,  and  sometimes  childish.  But  he 


448  PREDESTINED 

talks  of  you;  and,  when  he  grows  garrulous,  he 
relates  tales  that  he  would  keep  to  himself,  if  his 
mind  were  stronger.  Then,  too,  it  was  Paul  Pavin 
who  painted  my  portrait." 

"I  suppose  you  mean  that  Joseph  told  you  of  my 
loss  of  patrimony,  and  that  Pavin  had  something  to 
say  about  my  subsequent  life?" 

For  a  moment  she  looked  at  him  searchingly. 
Then  a  flush  covered  her  face,  as  she  replied : 

"That's  it." 

All  the  same,  he  found  it  difficult  to  understand 
how  such  information  constituted  an  excuse  for  his 
career. 

They  remained  silent,  gazing  over  the  laurel 
shrubs. 

The  sunshine  had  nearly  left  the  tree  trunks;  but 
it  lingered,  in  an  accentuated  effulgence,  amid  the 
branches.  The  firs  spread  out  their  countless  soft 
tufts  of  needles  as  if  for  a  final  and  more  thorough 
blazoning,  the  oaks  showed  a  few  leaves  like  scraps 
of  beaten  gold,  while  the  whole  wide-spread  mesh  of 
limbs  and  twigs  seemed  ready  to  dissolve  its  myriad 
intricacies  and  pervade  the  still  air,  in  a  shimmering 
vapor. 

"What  time  is  it,  Felix?" 

"I  don't  know." 

She  cast  round  her  an  uneasy  glance  which 
reached  the  farthest  haze  of  tree  tops.  There,  to 
the  east  and  to  the  south,  towered  the  "sky-scrap- 
ers" of  the  city.  So  their  solitude  had  limits!  She 
exclaimed: 


NINA 


449 


"It  will  be  twilight  soon.  It  is  growing  colder. 
And  you  have  no  overcoat!" 

Reaching  forward,  she  felt  the  thickness  of  his 
clothing.  Tears  brimmed  her  eyes.  He  caught  her 
retiring  hand  in  his. 

"Don't  take  your  hand  away.  Something  passes 
through  your  glove  straight  to  my  heart.  All  sorts 
of  forgotten  images  reappear  before  me.  The  blind 
who  were  made  to  see  must  have  had  such  sensations." 

When  he  had  bent  down  to  kiss  her  fingers,  he 
continued : 

"I  went  on  and  on;  I  believed  I  had  lost  myself 
in  the  shadows:  but  no — you  were  always  there,  far 
overhead.  When  spring  came,  I  remembered  the 
lilac  bushes  through  the  woods.  When  it  was  winter, 
I  saw  your  face  across  a  glow  of  candles.  Or  else  I 
heard  leaves  rustling  in  the  summer  breeze,  at  night, 
and  dreamed  of  the  garden." 

She  closed  her  eyes. 

"Maybe  you  were  not  alone  in  such  thoughts." 

"All  my  aspirations  were,  in  the  end,  attempts  to 
win  your  secret  praise;  and  your  mute  reproach 
seemed  to  intensify  all  my  remorses.  There  were 
even  moments  when  it  seemed  to  me  that  you  were 
present,  if  not  in  person,  at  least  in  spirit." 

"Perhaps  there  was  cause  for  that  belief." 

She  turned  away  her  head;  but  he  could  see, 
above  the  gray  fur  scarf,  her  trembling  chin.  Then, 
facing  him,  she  let  her  eyes  rain  tears. 

"We  have  been  very  unhappy!" 

He  had  never  been  happier  than  then. 


450  PREDESTINED 

"No,  this  repays  me  for  everything!  What  does 
the  rest  matter,  now?" 

And  he  added,  with  the  thrill  which  comes  to  one 
who  unexpectedly  interprets,  in  a  phrase,  a  prin- 
ciple of  his  life : 

"If  it  had  turned  out  as  we  anticipated,  the  joy  of 
our  happiness  might  not  have  equalled  the  joy  of  our 
distress." 

While  she  understood  this  speech,  she  did  not 
assent  to  it. 

"On  the  contrary,"  she  protested,  "to  have  been 
promised  so  much,  and  to  have  lost  it  all!  To  have 
had  this  meeting,  and  to  part!" 

"Yes,"  he  agreed,  gloomily,  "I  suppose  that  is 
what  we  must  do." 

In  fact,  she  was  already  looking  eastward  appre- 
hensively. 

"And  what  about  you?"  she  asked,  while  pressing 
a  handkerchief  against  her  cheeks. 

"It  will  be  different  with  me,  henceforth." 

"Ah,  Felix,  if  you  will  make  that  promise  good! 
Perhaps  it  was  not  for  nothing  that  I  used  to  think 
of  you  as  standing  on  a  wonderful  threshold.  I  have 
read  somewhere,  'To  become  a  saint,  one  must  have 
been  a  sinner.'  It  is  true,  no  doubt — at  least,  I 
know  that  I  could  find  in  a  man  who  had  fought  his 
infirmities  and  conquered  them  a  hundred  times  the 
worth  of  another,  born  to  security." 

Did  she  not  have  in  mind  her  husband?  A 
keener  thrill  pervaded  him. 

' '  You  shall  see ! "  he  cried.     ' '  And  afterward  ? ' ' 


NINA  451 

She  hesitated.  But  finally,  with  the  look  of  a 
woman  brought,  despite  herself,  for  the  first  time 
in  her  life  to  the  commission  of  a  subtle  treason,  she 
whispered,  with  averted  eyes: 

"Who  knows?" 

Then  she  rose  quickly.  He  was  shocked  to  find 
their  parting  imminent. 

"But  the  sun  has  not  set!" 

"And  yet  we've  said  too  much!" 

She  put  out  her  hand. 

"I  have  your  promise,  Felix." 

"Yes." 

F6*  a  while  they  looked  at  each  other  through  a 
mist. 

"Good-by." 

"Good-by." 

She  departed. 

He  watched  her  descend  the  hillside  by  a  narrow 
path  that  wound  eastward  between  rhododendron 
bushes.  Her  blue  dress  vanished  behind  tree  trunks; 
it  reappeared  farther  on,  diminished.  A  shaft  of 
sunlight  illumined  her  for  an  instant.  She  flitted 
through  deep  shadows.  He  could  see  her  no  longer. 
She  had  not  looked  back. 

The  white  bull-terrier  peered  up  at  Felix  in- 
quiringly. 

The  latter  cast  his  eyes  toward  the  confines  of  the 
park. 

And  he  felt  that  the  horizontal  sunbeams  were 
bathing  him  in  a  sublime  lustre.  The  earth  was 
merged  into  the  sky;  the  light,  like  an  unalterable 


452  PREDESTINED 

assurance  smiling  from  afar,  impartially  benefited 
all  it  touched;  and  every  substance  in  the  universe, 
whether  volatile  or  solid,  growing  or  inert,  revealed 
to  him  its  meaning,  its  destiny,  its  harmony  with  all 
other  substances  and  with  the  eternal.  Was  not  he 
himself  included  in  this  synthesis?  He  seemed  to 
share  the  will  for  evolution  that  pervaded  everything 
existent;  and  he  thought  to  recognize,  deep  in  his 
nature,  something  of  the  inflexible  determination 
which  holds  in  place  the  firmament. 

He  faced  the  west.  The  sunset  seemed  to  be 
consuming  all  the  cornices:  the  city  that  had  been 
his  prison  was  in  process  of  dissolution.  He  gazed 
to  the  south-east.  The  windows  of  tall  buildings, 
flashing  forth  great  rays,  were  like  the  trophies  of  a 
conquered  host  suspended  on  the  walls  of  temples. 

Finally,  he  went  down  the  path  by  which  he  had 
ascended — between  the  rocks,  past  the  rhododen- 
drons, beneath  the  firs,  across  the  wooden  bridge, 
the  driveway,  and  the  arch  above  the  bridle  path. 
He  was  no  longer  exhausted.  As  if  in  a  trance,  he 
set  out,  walking  southward. 

On  his  right,  roofs  turned  red:  on  his  left,  beyond 
a  boundary  wall,  lamps  showed  among  the  branches 
points  of  clear  yellow.  Gradually,  a  whiteness  filled 
the  eastern  sky,  invaded  the  zenith,  and  descended 
toward  the  west.  There,  far  beyond  every  cross 
street,  was  to  be  seen  for  a  while,  low  lying,  a  thin 
strip  of  evanescent  rose. 

Twilight  gathered  in  the  busy  thoroughfares.  He 
reached  Union  Square. 


NINA  453 

The  traffic  threaded  its  way  through  a  dusk 
studded  with  a  confusion  of  lights.  Close  at  hand, 
acetylene  lamps  blazed  forth  abruptly;  trolley-cars 
rumbled  past;  horns  and  gongs  sounded  on  all 
sides;  and  those  afoot  rushed  forward,  at  intervals, 
between  motormen  straining  at  their  brakes  and 
automobiles  halted  with  a  wrench.  Felix  woke,  so 
to  speak,  to  find  himself  hemmed  in  by  swiftly 
moving  vehicles. 

A  shout  reached  his  ears.  He  turned  to  look 
for  Pat.  The  dog,  scampering  toward  him,  disap- 
peared beneath  an  automobile. 

Felix  jumped  forward  with  a  cry.  The  auto- 
mobile struck  him,  knocked  him  down,  and,  gather- 
ing speed,  made  off. 

But  immediately  he  was  on  his  feet. 

A  crowd  had  already  assembled  in  a  ring,  through 
which  Felix  pushed  his  way.  In  the  midst,  the 
white  bull-terrier  lay  on  his  side,  covered  with  dirt, 
his  legs  stretched  out,  his  mouth  closed.  He  did 
not  move. 

Felix  lifted  the  body,  and  held  it  to  his  breast. 
He  stared  round  him  blankly.  Each  face  expressed 
commiseration.  A  man  in  a  battered  hat  began  to 
curse  the  rich.  Another,  his  cheeks  swelling  withK 
fury,  demanded  "a  law  for  the  regulation  of  speed 
maniacs."  One  asked  the  rest  if  the  automobile 
number  had  been  taken.  All  turned  to  cast  impo- 
tent glances  into  the  dusk.  Three  policemen  ap- 
peared simultaneously.  Their  spokesman,  wearing 
a  belted  overcoat  and  a  flat  cap  of  blue  cloth  with 


454  PREDESTINED 

an  enamelled  visor,  lifted  the  dog's  chin.  After 
scrutinizing  the  small,  three-cornered  eyes  already 
glazed,  he  pronounced: 

"He's  kilt,  all  right." 

Then,  laying  his  palm  on  Felix's  shoulder, 

"Will  you  be  wanting  to  dispose  of  him  yourself?" 

Felix  nodded. 

"All  right,  then.  I'm  sorry.  I've  got  a  dog  of 
me  own." 

And,  turning  on  the  crowd,  the  policeman  shouted, 
violently : 

"Now  then,  get  out  of  here,  the  whole  of  yez! 
What  do  yez  think  this  is — a  show?" 

The  spectators,  however,  reassembling  on  the 
pavement,  were  not  to  be  denied  the  excitement  of 
following  Felix  eastward  along  Fourteenth  Street. 
The  van  of  this  procession  with  difficulty  escaped 
treading  on  his  heels;  the  line  was  continually 
re-enforced,  and  ragged  youngsters  ran  ahead  to 
look  back  at  the  body  slipping  from  his  arms. 
Dizzy  and  faint,  Felix  no  longer  knew  where  he 
was  going.  Debility  seized  on  him  again;  his 
limbs  seemed  ready  to  resign  their  offices;  he  ex- 
pected every  moment  to  plunge  forward  on  his  face. 

But  there  rose  before  him  a  round,  familiar  visage, 
like  the  countenance  of  a  dumfounded  Vitellius. 
It  was  Delaclaire  sent,  by  chance,  to  the  rescue. 

"Your  dog!    But  not  hurt?" 

"Run  over.     Dead." 

"Great  heavens,  what  news  to  take  home!  I  feel 
that  I'm  going  to  be  a  touching  messenger  to-night!" 


NINA  455 

Felix,  once  having  come  to  a  stop,  was  on  the 
point  of  sinking  with  his  burden  to  the  ground. 

"I  am  just  out  of  a  hospital.  This  has  nearly 
finished  me.  I  must  get  somewhere  at  once." 

"My  dear  boy!  Forgive  me.  I  know  what  you 
need." 

And  the  Thespian  drew  Felix  to  the  door  of 
Quilty's  saloon. 

The  younger  man  shrank  back. 

"No,  no!" 

Delaclaire  wore  the  look  of  a  benevolent  old  phy- 
sician whose  patient  exhibits  a  deplorable  ignorance 
of  his  requirements. 

"Nonsense!    You  are  in  my  hands." 

He  saw  the  foil-wrapped  chandeliers,  the  mirrors, 
the  pyramids  of  glasses.  Quilty's  scar  attracted  his 
attention.  The  Thespian,  while  supporting  Felix  with 
one  arm,  was  pouring  out  to  the  saloon  keeper,  with 
a  wealth  of  florid  gesticulations,  "the  tragic  story." 
Moreover,  Connla  was  taking  the  dog's  body  from  him. 

The  group  entered  the  back  room.  There,  the 
detective  laid  Pat  upon  a  table.  Confronting  Felix, 
he  inquired,  angrily: 

"How  did  it  happen?" 

The  other,  sinking  into  a  chair,  buried  his  face  in 
his  hands. 

Delaclaire  embellished  his  tale,  this  time,  with 
several  dramatic  and  entirely  fictitious  incidents. 

"The  mob  stormed  the  automobile!  They  threat- 
ened the  chauffeur!  But  my  friend,  mastering  his 
sorrow,  restrained  them  .  .  .  ." 


456  PREDESTINED 

In  short,  facts  no  longer  mattered  to  the  actor. 
He  was  carried  away  by  his  imagination.  Possibly 
he  even  "saw  himself  in  the  part." 

Connla  patted  Felix  on  the  back. 

"It's  just  one  of  them  things  that  can't  be  helped, 
that  hits  us  when  we  least  expect  it.  It's  what  we 
have  to  get  used  to." 

Felix,  raising  his  head,  with  difficulty  got  out  the 
words : 

"He  never  left  me.  He  never  deceived  me.  He 
was  never  ashamed  of  me.  I  think  he  understood, 
all  the  while,  what  I  wanted  to  do." 

He  collapsed  in  a  paroxysm  of  grief. 

Delaclaire,  who  had  darted  out  to  the  bar,  re- 
turned, from  caution  more  bow-legged  than  ever, 
bearing  a  small  glass  overflowing  with  whiskey.  Dis- 
tributing between  the  detective  and  the  saloon  keeper 
a  sapient  look,  he  addressed  the  young  man  in 
coaxing  accents. 

"You'll  feel  better  when  you've  had  some  of  this." 

The  liquor  was  beneath  his  nose ;  the  fumes  pene- 
trated his  brain.  He  took  the  glass,  and  emptied  it 
down  his  throat.  Soon,  he  experienced  a  delicious 
relaxation. 

Another  glassful  intoxicated  him. 

The  Thespian,  his  anxiety  relieved  by  the  obvious 
effect  of  his  prescription,  was  relating  to  Connla  and 
to  Quilty,  in  a  mournful  manner,  an  appropriate 
anecdote. 

"It's  not  as  if  I  couldn't  feel  for  him!  I've  had 
my  own  experience.  Mine  was  a  French  poodle, 


NINA  457 

Gyp — the  most  intelligent  animal!  We  put  her  in 
an  act  that  was  a  knockout  from  end  to  end  of  the 
country:  just  before  the  curtain,  she  tore  open  a 
sofa  pillow  and  discovered  the  missing  will.  But 
one  day,  she  et  a  piece  of  bacon  rind  covered  with 
rat  poison." 

Connla,  paying  scanty  attention  to  this  chronicle, 
stroked  the  bull-terrier's  head.  At  last,  clearing  his 
throat,  he  said: 

"I  remember  well  the  first  night  I  ever  seen  him. 
How  he  stuck  his  teeth  into  them  niggers'  ankles! 
But,  at  that,  I  think  it  kind  of  went  against  the 
grain.  He  was  a  thoroughbred!" 

"A  man  gets  attached  to  a  dog,"  was  Quilty's 
contribution.  Moved,  perhaps,  by  a  variation  of 
that  impulse  which  results  in  " wakes,"  he  ordered 
the  bartender  to  bring  in  another  "round  of  drinks." 
The  saloon  keeper's  own  choice  of  beverage  proved 
to  be,  as  always,  "a  little  lithia  water." 

Felix  no  longer  shed  tears.  His  bereavement  had 
blended  into  a  cloud  of  rapidly  escaping  thoughts. 
Leaning  forward,  with  his  hands  dangling  between 
his  knees,  he  listened  to  the  remote  voice  of  the 
detective,  who  assured  him  that  the  dog  should  have 
a  decent  burial.  There  was  a  man  uptown,  it 
seemed,  who  made  a  business  of  the  interment  of 
pets.  "And,  as  he's  broke  the  health  laws  once  or 
twice,  we'll  make  him  do  the  job  for  nothing.  I'll 
see  to  it." 

"You  are  too  good.  You  are  one  and  all  too 
good." 


458  PREDESTINED 

Was  it  not  fortunate  that  he  should  be  solaced  by 
three  friends  so  considerate  and  so  sympathetic  ? 

Later,  he  was  bewildered  to  find  eight  dollars  in 
his  pocket. 

He  parted  from  Quilty,  Delaclaire,  and  Connla. 
The  detective  suggested  seeing  him  home.  They 
'stood  in  the  open;  the  stars  were  thick;  a  cold  wind 
was  blowing. 

"It's  not  worth  while.     I  live  close  by." 

"But  where?" 

"In  this  neighborhood." 

"Well,  just  as  you  say.  We'll  meet  at  Quilty's, 
then,  to-morrow  morning." 

"To-morrow  morning." 

He  wandered  through  the  streets.  Whenever  he 
saw  i.he  illuminated  windows  of  a  saloon ,  he  pushed 
back  the  swinging  doors.  For  the  benefit  of  many 
strangers  whom  he  met  at  bars,  he  began  a  sad 
monologue,  which  he  was  unable  to  finish;  while 
trying  to  remember  its  conclusion,  he  sent  a  waver- 
ing glance  round  the  floor,  beneath  the  tables,  into 
corners. 

But  the  stars  drew  near,  to  give  him  news  of  all 
that  they  had  ever  seen;  the  trailing  clouds  held 
pictures  of  steel-covered  armies,  like  mirages  linger- 
ing long  after  the  ancient  battles  which  they  seemed 
to  have  reflected;  and  the  earth  whispered  to  him 
of  all  that  it  contained,  deep  down,  where  man  had 
not  been.  Then  the  shapes  of  women  moved  before 
him,  lighter  than  thistledown,  and  fairer  than  the 
moon.  Their  red  lips  parted;  their  tresses  fluttered 


NINA  459 

back;  enlaced,  they  darted  upward;  their  laughter 
fell  in  showers ;  they  shredded  away. 

He  woke  with  his  head  on  a  table,  in  the  back 

room  of  a  dram  shop  near  the  river — a  resort  for 

longshoremen.     The    sun    shone   through  a   dusty 

/window.    A  shabby  fellow  was  preparing  to  sweep 

the  floor. 

Resting  on  his  broom,  the  stranger  favored  Felix 
with  a  wink. 

"There  you  are!  A  night's  lodging,  and  no 
charge." 

"What  time  is  it?" 

"Six  o'clock,  and  a  fine,  crisp  day." 

Felix  explored  his  pockets  feebly,  then  pressed  his 
hands  against  his  head. 

"I  feel  very  ill." 

"Indeed,  you  look  so!  And  no  money?  Well, 
now,  suppose  I  take  a  chance,  and  stake  vou  to  a 
drink?" 

"Thank  you." 

When  he  had  swallowed  some  fiery  brandy,  he 
found  himself  able  to  start  homeward. 

He  was  living  in  a  four-story  "hotel"  that  sur- 
mounted a  cafe,  on  Fourth  Avenue  below  Fourteenth 
Street.  His  week's  rent  was  overdue;  and,  as  he 
had  not  been  home  for  four  days,  it  occurred  to  him 
that  he  must  have  been  evicted.  He  found  his 
room,  however,  as  he  had  left  it. 

An  iron  bedstead  leaned  against  the  wall  opposite 
a  wooden  mantelpiece,  painted  to  resemble  oak. 
The  washstand,  its  varnish  nearly  obliterated  by 


460  PREDESTINED 

many  splashings,  supported  a  basin  and  a  pitcher. 
A  small  bureau  by  the  window,  and  a  straight-back 
chair,  completed  the  furniture.  His  trunk  stood 
behind  the  door. 

When  he  had  closed  and  locked  the  door,  he  in- 
spected his  surroundings  carefully.  An  alarm  clock 
on  the  mantle-shelf  attracted  him.  He  began  to 
wind  it.  Soon,  a  smile  crossed  his  face,  and  he  set 
down  the  clock  but  partly  wound. 

In  the  bureau  drawer,  he  found  a  box  half  full  of 
headache  powders.  There  were  six  "doses"  left. 
He  unfolded  the  papers,  one  by  one,  and  emptied 
them  into  a  glass  tumbler. 

But  he  stopped  short.  Some  one  was  knocking 
at  the  door. 

He  held  his  -breath.  The  knock  was  repeated, 
the  door-knob  rattled,  and  a  voice  called: 

"Felix?" 

Presently  he  heard  Monsieur  Pierre  shuffle  down 
the  corridor. 

The  contents  of  the  six  papers  made  in  the  bottom 
of  the  tumbler  a  little  mound  of  powder.  He  added 
water  from  the  pitcher  on  the  washstand.  Then  he 
drank  the  mixture  off.  As  he  set  down  the  tumbler, 
he  asked  himself: 

"What  have  I  done?" 

With  a  feeling  of  scepticism,  he  approached  the 
window.  Through  soiled  Nottingham  curtains,  he 
saw  the  sun  shining  as  brightly  as  before,  the  drays 
full  of  bales  and  boxes,  the  people  hurrying  to  work. 


NINA  461 

These  passers-by  were  talking,  laughing,  full  of  life. 
He  could  not  convince  himself  that  he  was  on  the 
point  of  leaving  them. 

Suddenly,  he  perceived  Monsieur  Pierre  c-n  the 
opposite  corner,  in  front  of  a  saloon. 

The  Parisian's  clothes  were  too  large  for  him. 
With  his  knees  bent,  his  shoulders  stooped,  his  arms 
dangling,  he  turned  his  piebald  beard  repeatedly 
from  north  to  south.  Even  at  a  distance,  his  anxiety 
was  perceptible.  He  was  awaiting  Felix. 

After  he  had  peered  into  several  hundred  faces,  he 
removed  his  black  felt  hat  with  a  gesture  of  hope- 
lessness. His  bald  head  flashed.  His  shadowy  eyes 
were  raised  to  Felix's  window.  But  the  Notting- 
ham curtain  prevented  a  discovery. 

When  he  had  again  looked  up  and  down  the 
street — though  this  time  more  furtively  than  ex- 
pectantly— the  Frenchman  edged  toward  the  saloon 
behind  him.  He  put  out  his  fleshless  hand.  The 
doors  swung  ajar.  Monsieur  Pierre,  with  surprising 
agility,  slipped  between  them. 

"Poor  old  rascal!"  thought  Felix. 

His  headache  was  gone.  The  serenity  of  the  day 
before  had  returned  to  him.  Leaning  against  the 
sash,  he  continued  to  look  out,  listlessly,  at  the 
pedestrians. 

They  made  haste,  as  if  matters  of  great  moment 
awaited  them.  All  their  faces  showed  a  matutinal 
animation.  It  was  the  beginning  of  a  fresh  day  for 
them.  It  was  the  world  that  hurried  by. 


4<52  PREDESTINED 

So  it  would  be  to-morrow,  next  year,  a  century 
hence,  a  thousand  years  from  now!  He  found  the 
thought  wellnigh  incredible,  that  everything  would 
go  on  the  same  as  ever. 

And  she,  too,  would  remain! 

He  saw  her  with  children  coming  to  adolescence 
round  her;  in  the  fulness  of  her  maturity,  in  the 
rich  autumn  of  her  life,  in  an  exquisite  old  age. 
"Her  charms  can  never  fail;  they  can  no  more  than 
change.  She  will  attain,  at  last,  that  fineness  of  the 
aged  who  have  been  fair.  She  will  appear  in  lace 
and  silk  and  white  hair.  She  will  sit  on  a  hill-top, 
her  gaze  roaming  far  away,  while  the  leaves  flutter 
down  upon  her  hands.  She  will  be  lost  in  dreams." 

Oh,  to  have  been,  before  departure,  the  close  wit- 
ness of  such  a  progress — to  have  reached,  with  one 
so  dear,  such  a  culmination!  Others  were  des- 
tined to  those  delights,  but  he  must  miss  them. 

Surely,  if  he  desired  another  chance,  there  was 
still  time? 

A  determination,  strong  beyond  his  previous  ex- 
perience, kept  him  motionless  by  the  window. 

"That  illusion  shall  not  cheat  me  again.  Life  is 
a  struggle  that  I  am  not  fitted  for." 

Weakness  descended  on  him.  He  turned  to  *the 
bed.  The  floor  moved  beneath  his  feet.  His  skin 
was  bathed  in  a  cold  moisture.  Weighed  down  by 
an  immense  lassitude,  he  had  difficulty  in  stretching 
himself  upon  the  counterpane. 

"Then  I  was  not  deceived.     It  is  here!" 


NINA  463 

And  after  a  pause, 

"Why  am  I  not  afraid?" 

He  lay  still,  breathing  with  difficulty,  curious  to 
find  the  room  so  bright,  and  listening  to  the  ticking 
of  the  clock. 

Confused  images  trembled  in  mid-air. 

He  saw,  at  the  same  time,  the  Delaclaires  gobbling 
sandwiches  in  their  room,  Pavin  by  the  "north 
light,"  old  Joseph  fashioning  paper  hats,  Emma 
rolling  up  her  large  eyes,  Marie  posturing  on  the 
stage  of  the  Trocadero  Theatre,  Eileen  entering  his 
room  with  parted  lips.  Mr.  Snatt  seemed  to  exhibit 
his  nose  in  the  dismantled  chambers  of  a  college 
student;  while  Noon  showed  his  dusky  visage  in  a 
parlor  hung  with  the  Ferrol  family's  portraits. 
Then  the  Parisian's  bald  head  bent  forward,  and  a 
pair  of  shadowy  eyes  pored  over  a  pile  of  tattered 
magazines. 

All  these  figments  were  in  some  way  related  to 
one  another:  they  were  like  portions  of  a  tapestry 
which,  read  aright,  should  form  an  intelligible  whole. 
But  for  him  that  decipherment  was  a  task  too  ar- 
duous. A  labor  more  important  engaged  his  every 
faculty. 

He  was  at  great  pains  to  catch  his  breath. 

"How  one's  instincts  persist!" 

Was  not  this  effort  to  breathe  as  futile  as  his 
countless  past  endeavors? 

"Yet  if  one  might  only  be  sure  of  achieving, 
elsewhere,  the  ideal  .  .  .  ." 


464  PREDESTINED 

The  ideal!  He  could  not  recollect  in  what  it 
had  consisted.  It  was  as  if  a  guiding  beacon  had 
gone  out. 

At  nine  that  night,  the  clock  on  the  mantel-shelf 
stopped  ticking. 


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THE  SILENT  CALL.    By    Edwin    Milton   Royle.     Illustrated 
with  scenes  from  the  play. 

The  bTo  of  this  story  is  the  Squaw  Man's  son.  He  has 
been  taken  u  England,  but  spurns  conventional  life  for  the  sake 
of  the  untamed  West  and  a  girl's  pretty  face. 

JOHN  MARCH,    SOUTHERNER.    By  George  W.  Cable, 

A  story  of  the  pretty  women  and  spirited  men  of  the  South. 
As  fragrant  in  sentiment  as  a  sprig  of  magnolia,  and  as  fall  of 
mystery  and  racial  troubles  as  any  romance  of  "after  the  war" 
days. 

MR.  JUSTICE  RAFFLES.    By  E.  W.  Hornung. 

This  engaging  rascal  is  found  helping  a  young  cricket  player 
out  of  the  toils  of  a  money  shark.  Novel  in  plot,  thrilling  and 
amusing. 

FORTY  MINUTES  LATE.  By  F.  Hopkinson  Smith.  Illustrated 

by  S.  M.  Chase. 

Delightfully  human  stories  of  every  day  happenings;  of  a 
lecturer's  laughable  experience  because  he  s  late,  a  young  woman's 
excursion  into  the  stock  market,  etc. 

OLD  LADY  NUMBER  31.    By  Louise  Forsslund. 

A  heart-warming  story  of  American  rural  life,  telling  of  th« 
adventures  of  an  old  couple  :.n  an  old  folk's  home,  their  sunny, 
philosophical  acceptance  of  misfortune  and  ultimate  prosperity, 

THE  HUSBAND'S  STORY.    By  David  Graham  Phillips. 

A  story  that  has  given  all  Europe  as  well  as  all  America  much 
food  for  thought.  A  young  couple  begin  life  in  humble  circum- 
stances and  rise  in  worldly  matters  until  the  husband  is  enormously 
rich— the  wife  in  the  most  aristocratic  European  society— but  at  the 
price  of  their  happiness. 

THE  TRAIL  OF  NINETY- EIGHT.      By  Robert  W.  Service*. 
Illustrated  by  Maynard  Dixon. 

One  of  the  best  stories  of  "Vagabondia"  ever  written,  and 
one  of  the  most  accurate  and  picturesque  descriptions  of  the  stam. 
pede  of  gold  seekers  to  the  Yukon.  The  love  story  embedded  in 
the  narrative  is  strikingly  original. 

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THE     SECOND     WIFE.    By  Thompson  Buchanan.  Illustrated 
'  by  W.  W.  Fawcett. Harrison  Fisher  wrapper  printed  in  four 
colors  and  gold. 

An  intensely  interesting  story  of  a  marital  complication  in 
a  wealthy  New  Vork  family  involving  the  happiness  of  a 
beautiful  young  girl. 

TESS  OF  THE  STORM  COUNTRY.    By  Grace  Miller  White. 
Illustrated  by  Howard  Chandler  Christy. 

An  amazingly  vivid  picture  of  low  class  life  in  a  New 
York  college  town,  with  a  heroine  beautiful  and  noble,  who  makes 
a  great  sacrifice  for  love. 

FROM  THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  MISSING.    By  Grace  Miller 
White. 
Frontispiece  and  wrapper  in  colors  by  Penrhyn  Stanlaws. 

Another  story  of  "the  storm  country."  Two  beautiful  chil- 
dren are  kidnapped  from  a  wealthy  home  and  appear  many  years 
after  showing  the  effects  of  a  deep,  malicious  scheme  behind 
their  disappearance. 

THE    LIGHTED    MATCH.     By  Charles  Neville  Buck.    Illus- 
trated by  R.  F.  Scliabelitz. 

A  lovely  princess  travels  incognito  through  the  States  and 
falls  in  love  with  an  American  man.  There  are  ties  that  bind  her 
to  someone  in  her  own  home,  and  the  great  plot  revolves  round 
her  efforts  to  work  her  way  out. 

MAUD    BAXTER.    By  C.    C.    Hotchkiss.    Illustrated  by  Will 
Grefe. 

A  romance  both  daring  and  delightful,  involving  an  Amer- 
ican girl  and  a  young  man  who  had  been  impressed  into  English 
service  during  the  Revolution. 

THE    HIGHWAYMAN.    By   Guy   Rawlence.     Illustrated   by 
Will  Grefe. 

A  French  beauty  of  mysterious  antecedents  wins  the  love 
of  an  Englishman  of  title.  Developments  of  a  startling  character 
and  a  clever  untangling  of  affairs  hold  the  reader's  iuterest 

THE    PURPLE    STOCKINGS.     By  Edward  Salisbury   Field. 
Illustrated  in  colors;  marginal  illustrations. 

A  young  New  York  business  man.  his  pretty  sweetheart, 
his  sentimental  stenographer,  and  his  fashionable  sister  are  all 
mixed  up  in  a  misunderstanding  that  surpasses  anything  in  the 
way  of  comedy  in  years.  A  story  with  a  laugh  on  every  page. 

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HIS   HOUR.    By  Elinor  Glyn.    Illustrated. 

A  beautiful  blonde  Englishwoman  visits  Russia,  and  is  vio- 
lently made  love  to  by  a  young  Russian  aristocrat.  A  most  unique 
situation  complicates  the  romance. 

THE    GAMbLERS.      By  Charles  Klein  and  Arthur  Hornblow. 
Illustrated  by  C.  E.  Chambers. 

A  big,  vital  treatment  of  a  present  day  situation  wherein  men 
play  for  big  financial  stakes  and  women  flourish  on  the  profits — or 
repudiate  the  methods. 

CHEERFUL  AMERICANS.    By  Charles  Battell  Loomis.    Illus- 
trated by  Florence  Scovel  Shinn  and  others. 

A  good,  wholesome,  laughable  presentation  of  some  Americans 
at  home  and  abroad,  on  their  vacations,  and  during  their  hours  of 
relaxation. 

THE  WOMAN  OF  THE  WORLD.    By  Ella  Wheeler  Wilcox. 

Clever,  original  presentations  of  present  day  social  problems 
and  the  best  solutions  of  them.  A  book  every  girl  and  woman 
should  possess. 

THE    LIGHT  THAT  LURES.    By  Percy  Brebner. 
Illustrated.     Handsomely  colored  wrapper. 

A  young  Southerner  who  loved  Lafayette,  goes  to  France  to 
aid  him  during  the  days  of  terror,  and  is  lured  in  a  certain  direction 
by  the  lovely  eyes  of  a  Frenchwoman. 

THE  RAMRODDERS.        By  Holman  Day.      Frontispiece  by 
Harold  Matthews  Brett. 

A  clever,  timely  story  that  will  make  politicians  think  and  willi 
make  women  realize  the  part  that  politics  play — even  in  their' 
romances, 

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A  CERTAIN    RICH   MAN.    By  William  Allen  White. 

A  vivid,  startling  portrayal  of  one  man's  financial  greed,  its 
mde  spreading  power,  its  action  in  Wall  Street,  and  its  effect  on 
the  three  women  most  intimately  in  his  life.  A  splendid,  enter- 
taining American  novel. 

IN    OUR    TOWN.    By  William  Allen  White.    Illustrated  by  F. 
R.  Gruger  and  W.  Glackens. 

Made  up  of  the  observations  of  a  keen  newspaper  editor, 
involving  the  town  millionaire,  the  smart  set,  the  literary  set,  the 
bohemian  set,  and  many  others.  All  humorously  related  and  sure 
to  hold  the  attention. 

NATHAN  BURKE.    By  Mary  S.  Watts. 

The  story  of  an  ambitious,  backwoods  Ohio  boy  who  rose 
to  prominence.  Everyday  humor  of  American  rustic  life  per- 
meates the  book. 

THE  HIGH    HAND.    By  Jacques  Futrelle.    Illustrated  by  Will 
Grefe. 

A  splendid  story  of  the  political  game,  with  a  son  of  the 
soil  on  the  one  side,  and  a  "kid  glove"  politician  on  the  other. 
A  pretty  girl,  interested  in  both  men,  is  the  chief  figure. 

THE  BACKWOODSMEN.  By  Charles  G.  D.  Roberts.  Illustrated. 
Realistic  stories  of  men  and  women  living  midst  the  savage 
beauty  of  the  wilderness.    Human  nature   at  its  best  and   worst 
is  well  protrayed. 

YELLOWSTONE  NIGHTS.    By  Herbert  Quick. 

A  jolly  company  of  six  artists,  writers  and  other  clever 
folks  take  a  trip  through  the  National  Park,  and  tell  stories  around 
camp  fire  at  night.  Brilliantly  clever  and  original. 

THE  PROFESSOR'S  MYSTERY.      By    Wells    Hastings    and 
Brian  Hooker.    Illustrated  by  Hanson  Booth. 

A  young  college  professor,  missing  his  steamer  for  Europe, 
has  a.  romantic  meeting  with  a  pretty  girl,  escorts  her  home,  and 
b  enveloped  in  a  big  mystery. 

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fHE  SIEGE  OF  THE  SEVEN  SUITORS.    By  Meredith  Nich- 
olson.     Illustrated  by  C.  Coles  Phillips  and  Reginald  Birch. 

Seven  suitors  vie  with  each  other  for  the  love  of  a  beautiful 
girl,  and  she  subjects  them  to  a  test  that  is  fnll  of  mystery,  magic 
and  sheer  amusement. 

?HE  MAGNET.    By  Henry  C.  Rowland.    Illustrated  by  Clarence 
F.  Underwood. 

The  story  of  a  remarkable  courtship  involving  three  pretty 
girls  on  a  yacht,  a  poet-lover  in  pursuit,  and  a  mix-up  in  the  names 
of  the  girls. 

THE  TURN  OF  THE  ROAD.  By  Eugenia  Brooks  Frothingham. 
A  beautiful  young  opera  singer  chooses  professional  success 
instead  of  love,  but  comes  to  a  place  in  life  where  the  call  of  the 
heart  is  stronger  than  worldly  success. 

SCOTTIE  AND  HIS  LADY.     By  Margaret  Morse.    Illustrated 
by  Harold  M.  Brett. 

A  young  girl  whose  affections  have  been  blighted  is  presented 
with  a  Scotch  Collie  to  divert  her  mind,  and  the  roving  adventures 
of  her  pet  lead  the  young  mistress  into  another  romance. 

SHEILA  VEDDER.    By  Amelia  E.  Ban.    Frontispiece  by  Harri- 
son Fisher. 

A  very  beautiful  romance  of  the  Shetland  Islands,  with  a 
handsome,  strong  willed  hero  and  a  lovely  girl  of  Gaelic  blood  as 
heroine.  A  sequel  to  "Jan  Vedder's  Wife." 

JOHN  WARD.  PREACHER.    By  Margaret  Deland. 

The  first  big  success  of  this  much  loved  American  novelist. 
It  is  a  powerful  portrayal  of  a  young  clergyman's  attempt  to  win  his 
beautiful  wife  to  his  own  narrow  creed. 

I-HE    TRAIL  OF    NINETY-EIGHT.    By  Robert  W.  Service. 
Illustrated  by  Maynard  Dixon. 

One  of  the  best  stories  of  "Vagabondia  "  ever  written,  and 
»ne  of  the  most  accurate  and  picturesque  of  the  stampede  of  gold  ' 
seekers  to  the  Yukon.    The  love  story  embedded  in  the  narrative 
is  strikingly  original, 

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REALISTIC.  ENGAGING  PICTURES  OF  LIFF, 

THE  GARDEN  OF  FATE.  By  Roy  Norton.  Illustrated 

by  Joseph  Clement  Coll. 

The  colorful  romance  of  an  American  girl  in  Morocco,  and 
of  a  beautiful  garden,  whose  beauty  and  traditions  of  strange 
subtle  happenings  were  closed  to  the  world  by  a  Sultan's  seal. 

THE  MAN  HIGHER  UP.     By  Henry  Russell  Miller. 

Full  page  vignette  illustrations  by  M.  Leone  Bracket. 

The  story  of  a  tenement  waif  who  rose  by  his  own  ingenuity 

io  the  office  of  mayor  of  his  native  city.    His  experiences 

while  "climbing,"  make  a  most  interesting  example  of  the 

possibilities  of  humat.  nature  to  rise  above  circumstances. 

THE  KEY  TO  YESTERDAY.      By  Charles  Neville 

Buck.     Illustrated  by  R.  Schabelitz. 

Robert  Saxon,  a  prominent  artist,  has  an  accident,  while  in 

Paris,  which  obliterates  his  memory,  and  the  only  clue  he  has 

to  his  former  life  is  a  rusty  key.    What  door  in  Paris  will  it 

unlock?     He  must  know  that  before  he  woos  the  girl  he  loves. 

THE  DANGER  TRAIL.    By  James  Oliver  Curwood. 

Illustrated  by  Charles  Livingston  Bull. 
The  danger  trail  is  over  the  snow-smothered  North.     A 

g»ung  Chicago  engineer,  who  is  building  a  road  through  the 
ud&on  Bay  region,  is  involved  in  mystery,  and  is  led  into 
ambush  by  a  young  woman. 

THE  GAY  LORD  WARING.    By  Houghton  Townley_ 

Illustrated  by  Will  Grefe. 

A  story  of  the  smart  hunting  set  in  England.  A  gay  young 
lord  wins  in  love  against  his  selfish  and  cowardly  brother  ana 
apparently  against  fate  itself. 

BY  INHERITANCE.    By  Octave  Thanet.     Illustrated 

by  Thomas  Fogarty.     Elaborate  wrapper  in  colors. 

A  wealthy  New  England  spinster  with  the  most  elaborate 

plans  for  the  education  of  the  negro  goes  to  visit  her  nephew 

in  Arkansas,  where  she  learns  the  needs  of  the  colored  race 

first  hand  and  begins  to  lose  her  theories. 


GROSSET  &  DUNLAP,  526  WEST  26th  ST.V  NEW  YORK 


A  FEW  OF 

GROSSET  &    DUNLAP'S 
Great  Books  at  Little  Prices 

WHEN  A  MAN  MARRIES.  By  Mary  Roberts  Rinehart 
Illustrated  by  Harrison  Fisher  and  Mayo  Bunker. 

A  young  artist,  whose  wife  had  recently  divorced  him,  finds  thai 
a  visit  is  due  from  his  Aunt  Selina,  an  elderly  lady  having  ideas' 
about  things  quite  apart  from  the  Bohemian  set  in  which  her' 
nephew  is  a  shining  light.  The  way  in  which  matters  are  tempo- 
rarily adjusted  forms  the  motif  of  the  story. 

A  farcical  extravaganza,  dramatized  under  the  title  of  "Seven  Days" 

THE  FASHIONABLE    ADVENTURES   OF  JOSHUA 
,     CRAIG.    By  David  Graham  Phillips.     Illustrated. 
A  young  westerner,    uncouth  and   unconventional,  appears  in 
political  and  social  life  in  Washington.     He  attains  power  in  poli- 
tics, and  a  yc  ang  woman  of  the  exclusive  set  becomes  his  wife,  un- 
dertaking hi'  education  in  social  amenities. 

M  DOC."  G  ORDON.  By  Mary  E.  Wilkins-Freeman.  Illus- 
trated >y  Frank  T.  Merrill. 

Against  tue  familiar  background  of  American  town  life,  the 
author  portrays  a  group  of  people  strangely  involved  in  a  mystery. 
"Doc."  Gordon,  the  one  physician  of  the  place,  Dr.  Elliot,  his 
assistant,  a  beautiful  woman  and  her  altogether  charming  daughter 
are  all  involved  in  the  plot  A  novel  of  great  interest. 

HOLY  ORDERS.    By  Marie  Corelli. 

A  dramatic  story,  in  which  is  pictured  a  clergyman  in  touch  with 
society  people,  stage  favorites,  simple  village  folk,  powerful  finan- 
ciers and  others,  each  presenting  vital  problems  to  this  man  "in 
holy  orders" — problems  thatweare  now  struggling  with  in  America. 

KATRINE.    By  Elinor  Macartney  Lane.  With  frontispiece. 

Katrine,  the  heroine  of  this  story,  is  a  lovely  Irish  girl,  of  lowly 
birth,  but  gifted  with  a  beautiful  voice. 

The  narrative  is  based  on  the  facts  of  an  actual  Bulger's  career, 
and  the  viewpoint  throughout  is  a  most  exalted  one. 

THE   FORTUNES    OF  FIFI.    By  Molly  Elliot  Seawell. 

Illustrated  by  T.  de  Thulstrup. 

A  story  of  life  in  France  at  the  time  of  the  first  Napoleon.  Fifi, 
a  glad,  mad  little  actress  of  eighteen,  is  the  star  performer  in  a  third 
rate  Parisian  theatre.  A  story  as  dainty  as  a  Watteau  painting. 

SHE  THAT  HESITATES.  By  Harris  Dickson.  Illus- 
trated by  C.  W.  Relyea. 

The  scene  of  this  dashing  romance  shifts  from  Dresden  to  St. 
Petersburg  in  the  reign  of  Peter  the  Great,  and  then  to  New  Orleans. 

The  hero  is  a  French  Soldier  of  Fortune,  and  the  princess,  who 
hesitates — but  you  must  read  the  story  to  know  how  she  that  hesitates 
may  be  lost  and  yet  saved. 

GROSSET  &  DUNLAP,  526  WEST  26th  ST.  ,  NEW  YORK 


GROSSET  &    DUNLAP'S 

DRAMATIZED  NOVELS 

Original,  sincere  and  courageous — often  amusing — the 
kind  that  are  making  theatrical  history. 

MADAME  X.     By  Alexandre  Bisson  and  J.  W.  McCon- 
aughy.      Illustrated    with    scenes    from    the    play. 
A  beautiful  Parisienne  became  an  outcast  because  her  hus- 
band would  not  forgive  an  error  of  her  youth.    Her  love  for 
her  son  is  the  great  final  influence  in  her  career.    A  tremen- 
dous dramatic  success. 

THE  GARDEN  OF  ALLAH.    By  Robert  Hichens. 

An  unconventional  English  woman  and  an  inscrutable 
stranger  meet  and  love  in  an  oasis  of  the  Sahara.  Staged 
this  season  with  magnificent  cast  and  gorgeous  properties. 

THE  PRINCE  OF  INDIA.    By  Lew.  Wallace. 

A  glowing  romance  of  the  Byzantine  Empire,  presenting 
with  extraordinary  power  the  siege  of  Constantinople,  and 
lighting  its  tragedy  with  the  warm  underglow  of  an  Oriental 
romance.  As  a  play  it  is  a  great  dramatic  spectacle. 

TESS  OF   THE    STORM    COUNTRY.     By  Grace 
Miller  White.     Illust.  by  Howard  Chandler  Christy. 
A  girl  from  the  dregs  of  society,  loves  a  young  Cornell  Uni- 
versity student,  and  it  works  startling  changes  m  her  life  and 
the  lives  of  those  about  her.    The  dramatic  version  is  one  of 
the  sensations  of  the  season. 

YOUNG    WALLINGFORD.      By  George    Randolph 
Chester.     Illust.  by  F.  R.  Gruger  and  Henry  Raleigh. 

A  series  of  clever  swindles  conducted  by  a  cheerful  young 
man,  each  of  which  is  just  on  the  safe  side  of  a  State's  prison 
offence.  As  "Get-Rich-Quick  Wallingford,"  it  is  probably 
the  most  amusing  expose  of  money  manipulation  ever  seen 
on  the  stage. 

THE  INTRUSION   OF  JIMMY.    By  P.  G.  Wode 

house.    Illustrations  by  Will  Grefe. 
Social  and  club  life  in  London  and  New  York,  an  amateur 
burglary  adventure  and  a  love  story.    Dramatized  under  the 
title  of  "A  Gentleman  of   Leisure,"  it  furnishes  hours  of 
laughter  to  the  play-goers. 

GROSSET  &  DUNLAP,  526  WEST  26th  ST.,  NEW  YORK 


THE  NOVELS   OF 

GEORGE  BARR  McCUTCHEON 

GRAUSTARK. 

A  story  of  love  behind  a  throne,  telling  how  a  young 
American  met  a  lovely  girl  and  followed  her  to  a  new  and 
strange  country.    A  thrilling,  dashing  narrative. 
BEVERLY  OF  GRAUSTARK. 

Beverly  is  a  bewitching  American  girl  who  has  gone  to 
ihat  stirring  little  principality — Graustark — to  visit  her  friend 
the  princess,  and  there  has  a  romantic  affair  of  her  own. 
BREWSTER'S  MILLIONS. 

A  young  man  is  required  to  spend  one  million  dollars  in 
one  year  in  order  to  inherit  seven.    How  he  does  it  forms  the 
basis  of  a  lively  story. 
CASTLE  CRANEYCROW. 

The  story  i  evolves  round  the  abduction  of  a  young  Amer- 
ican woman,  her  imprisonment  in  an  old  castle  and  the  adven- 
tures created  through  her  rescue. 
COWARDICE  COURT. 

An  amusing  social  feud  in  the  Adirondacks  in  which  an 
English  girl  is  tempted  into  being  a  traitor  by  a  romantic 
young  American,  forms  the  plot. 
THE  DAUGHTER  OF  ANDERSON  CROW. 

The  story  centers  about  the  adopted  daughter  of  the  town 
mnrshal  in  a  western  village.     Her  parentage  is  shrouded  io 
mystery,  and  the  story  concerns  the  secret  that  deviously 
•works  to  the  surface. 
THE  MAN  FROM  BRODNEY'S. 

The  hero  meets  a  princess  in  a  far-away  island  among 
fanatically  hostile  Musselmen.    Romantic  love  making  amid 
amusing  situations  and  exciting  adventures. 
NEDRA. 

A  young  couple  elope  from  Chicago  to  go  to   London 
traveling  as  brother  and  sister.    They  are  shipwrecked  and  a 
strange  mix-up  occurs  on  account  of  it. 
THE  SHERRODS. 

The  scene  is  the  Middle  West  and  centers  around  a  man 
who  leads  a  double  life.    A  most  enthralling  novel. 
TRUXTON  KING. 

A  handsome  good  natured  young  fellow  ranges  on  the 
earth  looking  for  romantic  adventures  and  is  finally  enmeshed 
in  most  complicated  intrigues  in  Graustark. 

GROSSET  &  DUNLAP,  526  WEST  26th  ST.,  NEW  YORK 


THE  NOVELS  OF 

IRVING  BACHELLER 

Full  of  the  real  atmosphere  of  American  home  life. 

THE   HAND-MADE   GENTLEMAN.      With  a    double* 

page  frontispiece. 

The  son  of  a  wash-woman  begins  re-making  himself 
socially  and  imparts  his  system  to  his  numerous  friends.  A 
story  of  rural  New  York  with  an  appreciation  of  American 
types  only  possible  from  the  pen  of  a  humor  loving  American, 

PARREL  OF   THE    BLESSED    ISLES.    With  illustra- 
tions by  Arthur  I.  Keller. 

A  tale  of  the  North  Country.  In  Darrel,  the  clock  tinker, 
wit,  philosopher  and  man  of  mystery,  is  portrayed  a  force  held 
in  fetters  and  covered  with  obscurity,  yet  strong  *x>  make  its 
way,  and  widely  felt. 

D'RI  AND  I:    A  Tale  of  Daring  Deeds  in  the  Second  War 

with  the  British.    Illustrated  by  F.  C.  Yohn. 
"  D'ri  "  was  a  mighty  hunter,  quaint,  rugged,  wise,  truth- 
ful.    He  fights  magnificently  on  the  Lawrence,  and  is  a  strik- 
ing figure  in  this  enthusiastic  romance  of  early  America, 

EBEN  HOLDEN:    A  Tale  of  the  North  Country. 

A  story  of  the  hardy  wood-choppers  of  Vermont,  who 
founded  their  homes  in  the  Adirondack  wilderness.  "  Eben," 
the  hero,  is  a  bachelor  with  an  imagination  that  is  a  very 
wilderness  of  oddities. 

SILAS  STRONG:  Emperor  of  the  Woods. 

A  simple  account  of  one  summer  life,  as  it  was  lived  in  a 
part  of  the  Ad.  rondacks.  Silas  Strong  is  a  woodland  philos- 
opher, and  his  camp  is  the  scene  of  an  impressive  little  love 
story. 

VERGILIUS:   A  Tale  of  the  Coming  of  Christ 

A  thrilling  and  beautiful  story  of  two  young  Roman 
Patricians  whose  great  and  perilous  love  in  the  reign  of 
Augustus  leads  them  through  the  momentous,  exciting  events 
that  marked  the  year  just  preceding  the  birth  of  Christ. 

GROSSET  &  DUNLAP,  526  WEST  26th  ST.,  NEW  YORK 


University  of  California 

SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 

Return  this  material  to  the  library 

from  which  it  was  borrowed. 


OCT  01  1930 


OJ.OCTX81MI 


2.8  BO 


A     000  038  801 


